Analeptic
by AeonBlue
Summary: A botched move sent Joe to medical for what should have been stitches and nothing more...until he found himself looking for something restorative that went beyond what Meg was meant to offer.
1. Concept Cost

"Of course I'm enjoying the concept of traveling the world. The thing is, it's just that – a concept. You're treating this like I've got the luxury of going out every night to a Michelin restaurant before popping in to the hottest club and then retiring to my five-star hotel. It just doesn't work that way."

"Then how _does_ it work, Meg? You never call. I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what you're _not_ doing. Your 'concept' is an excuse to be an away from me – away from us. And don't act like there aren't any perks to the job."

Meg pulled a latex glove from a nearby box in the triage bay and tied it into tight, thick knots while she listened to Jackson talk. If she didn't keep her hands busy, she'd squeeze her phone until the screen cracked. Dave's constant chuckling in the background didn't help her irritation, and once the glove was reduced to a series of lumps and chunks, she threw it at him. Granted, Dave had earned the right to mock her taste in men after two decades of friendship, but his timing in doing so was always awful. Grinning, Dave ruffled her hair and wandered out of triage toward the monitors.

"We don't even stay at the same hotels as the talent, Jackson, and I'm not even clear if this is a job or an internship. If I'm not cut loose after six months, then it might be a job, and then we can have this discussion. Maybe."

Meg was rapidly losing patience with the conversation. Pointless, really – the company had given no concrete indication of what, exactly, she was supposed to be doing. She stitched, stapled, iced, taped, and generally kept functional some of the hardest working bodies in sports. Er, sports _entertainment_. What hadn't been made clear was how long her internship-cum-job would keep her working, and what her on-again, off-again boyfriend thought of that arrangement from six time zones away wasn't what she needed to be focusing on at the moment. What was going on two monitors away from the triage bay was an entirely different story.

Had Meg been paying attention, she would have noticed down the hall, through gorilla, past a ramp, and inside a steel cage that had no business being over a ring in the middle of an arena hosting a simple house show in Glasgow, a snap scoop bodyslam collided with a spear in the most awkward of all possible ways. The referee threw an "X" along with the impact and hoped for the best while the two wrestlers sorted it out quietly on the mat. The ending was largely on script, both men remained professional and calm, and the finish of the match lacked any more exertion than was absolutely necessary. One, two, three, quick poses, heat and pop, up the ramp, done and done.

Getting out of the ring and to the backstage area quickly was absolutely necessary for Randy, who was vacillating between fear and rage due to the ridiculous cage gimmick of the match, the lack of space for the move set he and Joe had attempted, and the overall disaster of the whole thing. He replayed the entire scene in his mind. Was Joe too close to the cage when they started their run? Was there enough space, or not? Was the gash as bad as it looked, or was that the adrenaline taking over in the moment and warping things? Randy didn't see which medic had met Joe backstage; if it wasn't Dave, it would be Meg. He was in good hands either way. Experience and skill with the former, tenacity and a no-bullshit attitude with the latter. Actually, Randy thought, it might be better if Joe had been stitched up by Meg. Joe's size and stubbornness were equals. Time to go see whose hands ended up on him.

The quick exit was an even better break for Joe. The few hundred feet up the ramp were tolerable if uneven; even the majority of the walk toward triage was manageable. Slowly, or was it suddenly – he wasn't sure – he couldn't see out of his right eye given the blood pasting it shut no matter how much or how often he wiped at it. He couldn't stand without tilting for sake of the floor that refused to stay level or still for any length of time, and couldn't hear because of the static, shrill, inescapable ringing in his ears. Even the walls seemed to slant away from him, and Joe didn't understand why any of it was happening. The overhead lights grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him, and slammed him toward the floor.


	2. Promises to Keep

Suddenly aware of hard, fast footsteps approaching the open triage door, Meg turned toward the sound, phone still grasped tightly in her hand, Jackson still yammering. Once it registered that the person was a sweat-coated, scowling Randy Orton, she realized her night was about to become extremely complicated.

"Jackson, look. I mean, listen. I have to go. I'm about to have an issue."

"Don't you dare. This is more important than whatev-"

"Nope. I'll call you back."

Meg cut the call off, stuffed the phone into the back of her cargo pants, and took a deep breath. When a major talent didn't bother to shower but did bother to stomp to triage after a match, it was obvious they were very hurt, very worried, or very angry. Dave was nowhere to be found, leaving Meg on her own to figure out what was brewing with Randy. _'Sink or swim, Meg,' _she thought, _'Fix this up and earn some brownie points. Randy's not gonna trip at you too bad. Hopefully.'_

"Where is he?" Randy's question was more of a snarl, but it did give Meg something to work with.

"Where is who, sir?"

The look on Randy's face read somewhere between wondering if he should speak slowly and use tiny words, and wondering if he should dial 911 instead of deal with the pea-brained medic.

"Are you fucking kidding? What do you mean, who? Didn't you see what happened? You know, in my match? Seriously, you just asked who?"

"No. Slow down. Are you hurt?"

"No. No! Not me! Joe! Where is Joe?"

Meg realized she had missed something major. That phone call with Jackson – she couldn't even blame him entirely, because she could have hung up sooner. Dave always had to be right, and now it was going to cost her. She had to dance through this, and fast.

"Joe hasn't been brought to medical. Are you sure he didn't stop at a locker room? Or maybe Dave met him between gorilla and triage?"

Slowly, the expression on Randy's face changed from one of complete frustration to one that might possibly be considering the available options, which might _not_ include continuing to scream at Meg.

"Okay. Maybe. Maybe he did. I'm gonna go look in locker rooms. _You_ need to go find Dave. Didn't you see what happened?"

"Not entirely." A benign statement, open to interpretation, not a truth or lie on Meg's part. Safe enough.

"I caught Joe on the head. He's split open bad. Blood everywhere, and he was out of it. Real out of it, like he couldn't walk right."

"Okay. You go look in locker rooms, and I'm going to go find Dave. I'm sure Dave has him and is cleaning him up for photos. You know how media is."

On that count, Meg was right. Media would want crisp, sweat-free photos of Joe with a placid look on his face, being tended to by someone authoritative wielding a medical implement. Or in this case, Dave holding his hands strategically over Joe's face so as not to block the photographer, both men displaying a proper mix of serious and serene. Meg played no part in anything that went to publication, and that was fine with her.

Meg's absence from media was really too bad, because years of medical training had given her the acting skills to pull off a display of outward calm over inward panic. Randy and his temper added up to trouble, not knowing where Dave was put Meg at a handicap, and finally, there was the _slight _problem of losing Joe. To her view, the situation had officially spiraled out of control. Meg had to hope Joe really was in a locker room, trying to pull a tough-guy act and clean himself up without help, or that Dave had managed to find him between gorilla and triage in order to begin first aid, because otherwise – well, Meg didn't want to contemplate 'otherwise.' None of those options involved brownie points.

Dave knew full well it was pure dumb luck that he caught Joe coming down the hall toward the monitors near triage. Literally caught, given that he watched Joe use the wall as a crutch, leaning against it and leaving a bloody, sweaty smear in his wake. When his head lolled back and he began to collapse toward the floor, Dave began as much of a sprint as his extra weight would allow, managing to get underneath Joe just in time to prevent him from slamming into the floor. Being pinned under one of the larger athletes on the roster was problem number one; the distance between the monitors near triage and triage itself was problem number two. Nothing could be helped if Joe couldn't get to where the help was at.

Briefly, Dave considered trying to roll Joe off of him, but experience dictated against it. The motion could exacerbate any injuries, and there was no guarantee that he could heft 265 pounds without help. Starting a slow slide out from underneath was a better idea, and would give Joe time to wake up. Fishing for his phone, Dave used his one free arm to send a quick text to Meg, along with a silent prayer that she was off the phone with her man-idiot and would actually respond.

"You're stuck with me for the time being," he muttered, trying to extricate his legs from under Joe, "So let's both hope we get our girl to show up, because you need more than what I can do alone."

Meg briefly considered not checking her back pocket when she felt her phone vibrate. After a moment's consideration that she still hadn't run in to Dave and Randy was likely running out of locker rooms to check but not out of vitriol to spew, she decided to read the message.

"Triage monitors. Now. Help."

Meg took off at a dead run. It was Dave's number, and somehow she knew he found Joe. She was tall enough and strong enough to help haul him back to triage, and smart enough to be thankful to everything above and below that Joe picked the triage monitors to collapse in front of. He had at least headed in the right direction. As lithe as Dave was portly, Meg made it to the monitors with energy to spare. Writhing, Dave had managed to get out from under Joe. Joe, through a string of slurred profanity and wild attempts at punches, had managed to force Dave into hauling him up to a slumped, seated position. Neither man appeared very happy with the other.

While seated and debating whether vomiting was worth the effort, Joe was also debating his next move. The constant, sharp, squealing static refused to let go, and the floor continued pitching left and right. Nothing about the night had come back to him; Joe briefly considered touching his face to see if it jogged his memory, but discarded the idea as quickly as it came to him. If he couldn't remember what happened, touching his face could make it worse. Besides, his head and neck hurt.

_'Staying here can make things worse, too, Joe. Figure shit out. Do something. Move.'_

Planting his right palm firmly on the ground, Joe tried to push himself forward toward his knees – he could crawl if he had to – but realized too late he hadn't decided which way to go, and Dave kept trying to pull him backwards. His vision, limited as it was, began to swim from the effort, and it was at that moment that two very cold, rose-scented hands pressed into the sides of his shoulders and steadied him back against the wall. Joe tried tilting his head back to look up, but his neck twinged hard enough to tell him it wasn't a good idea. Meg dropped to her knees in front of him and, alternating hands, started gently lifting strands of hair away from his face. The relief on Dave's face was immediate.

"Thank fuck, Meg. First he falls on me, now he's trying to stand up, crawl away, and generally be a pain in my ass. Fighting with him was gonna hurt him worse than just letting his idiot ass sit up. I'm not sure he knows what planet he's on, but it's not one that involves listening to the friendly medic who wants to sew him back together."

"You can impress him with your sarcasm later, Dave. Let's just get him on a table before Randy gets back to triage and realizes I might have lied to him just...a bit. You wouldn't believe what bullshit I had to string together. No worse than what he's ever done, though."

Dave smiled broadly. "Atta girl, Meg. You survived, right?"

"Right. But we also still have to _get_ to triage." Meg firmly pushed Joe back against the wall and eyed him critically. "Quick check says concussion, sutures, contusion, and needs one hell of a shower. Sweaty. Gross."

"All that blood and it's the sweat that gets you? Meg, you are one fucked up chick."

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment, and hurt you later."

"Okay. You deal with him for a minute, I'm going to run back to triage and get a stretcher and -"

"Oh, bullshit you're _running_ anywhere, and double-bullshit he's getting on a stretcher. You already know we're walking him back to triage. How about you prep for stitches, make sure Randy knows Joe is okay, and get us set up for media? I'll stay here with him til you text me that we're ready."

"Best idea you've ever had. I've had my fill of one angry Samoan man for the night."

"Just come help me carry him when you're set up."

Dave trotted off, and Meg turned her attention back to the sorry-looking man in front of her. His breathing was shallow and rapid, eyes slitted open, and lips dry. Thankful for having stashed a squirrel's nest of supplies in her cargo pants, Meg shifted on her knees and fished out a small pot of neutral lip balm. Uncapping it and rubbing her middle knuckle through it, she tipped Joe's head back, causing his lips to part slightly.

"I'm going to put some balm on your lips. I'll be careful, and this shouldn't hurt. Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?"

Joe didn't respond, but also didn't try to shove her away. He could almost taste the rose scent on her hands when she rolled her knuckle across his lower lip, and her hands were so cold they lifted a shiver from his chest. He started to raise a hand up to her face, to try to get her to help him stand up, help him walk away from here, tell him what happened, but she gently caught his hand in hers and held it.

"Do you need me to stop?"

He sighed, somewhere between frustration at not being able to formulate sentences without making his headache worse, and pleasure at just how cold her skin was.

"Okay. We're going to take everything nice and slow. Instead of moving your head, or talking, squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no. Do you feel like you can do that?"

One squeeze. _'Okay,' _Meg thought, _'So far, so good. And Dave is supposed to be the nice one. Go figure. Let's see how far I can push this.'_

"Step one is getting you out of some of this ring gear. Do you remember anything about your match tonight?"

Two squeezes, hard enough to roll some of the bones in her hand over each other. _'Welp, that was too far. Good job, dumbass. Let's try not to make the giant man angry.'_

"I'm sorry. You and I are going to figure it out, and I'm going to take care of you. I promise."

One squeeze. Meg smiled.


	3. Attar of Rose

A/N: I thank everyone for the reads, favorites, follows...and welcome any reviews and comments.

* * *

Meg placed Joe's hands on the floor and again rummaged in her squirrel's nest of tools, coming up with a pair of bandage scissors. Slowly, she cut through the thick nylon straps holding Joe's vest together. She was fairly sure the costuming department was going to have a meltdown when her handiwork was discovered, but her primary concern was getting him to triage, not saving a glorified lifejacket. Carefully, Meg peeled back the front of the vest, sliding her fingers inside along each one of Joe's ribs. His head lolled from side to side, making her nervous about just how far toward the land of the unconscious he had slipped, but his breathing was beginning to even out. _'Nothing broken. He's calm. Slip him a few glucose tablets and try to get him on his feet.'_

Joe felt her fingertips dance across the length of each of his ribs, and shivered again. Her hands were crushingly, unbelievably cold, like snow. She moved closer to him while she pressed her fingers against his chest, and he felt like he was floating on the intensity of her scent. Joe swore he could taste it, could almost feel rose petals on his skin, crumbling under the ice of her fingers. He tried to reach forward, and for a second it felt like she was pulling him into her. She was; Meg was savvy enough to use his forward lean to her advantage. While Joe had tipped away from the wall, she slid his vest down his arms and let it drop to the floor, lifting his hands over it.

"I'm so sorry I don't have a towel, but we're on our way. I'm going to give you some glucose tabs to help bring up your blood sugar and wake you up a little, so you can walk. You're exhausted. You're going to take them. No arguing."

She slid her right hand under his. Another single squeeze. _'She's made out of snow and roses. You don't remember anything. You're losing your mind if you think she's made out of snow and roses.'_

Meg moved to the right of Joe, slipped two tabs into his mouth, and wrapped his arm behind her. "Just let those melt and grab my hip. Doesn't matter how hard, you won't hurt me. I'm going to be your eyes on this side. On the left, just lean on the wall. All I want you to do is stand straight up. No walking. I'm going to help. Just push straight up with your legs. Nice and easy."

_'Do what the roses say, Joe. You're gone. Whatever happened, you've lost it.'_

He dug his fingers deeply into Meg's hip; she had to strangle down a scream and immediately regretted saying he wouldn't hurt her. Joe struggled to get his feet underneath him, and it was largely Meg's effort that initiated their rise. Once Joe was vertical and able to understand her directions for walking, Meg had to roll her eyes. It was a bit like trying to direct a drunk. A drunk who was making every effort to cooperate, but a drunk nonetheless. He, meanwhile, had settled into a sway-bump rhythm that pressed her firmly into his side, oblivious to the pain his grip was causing her. She couldn't fault him for it; he was so lost in his injury that she could have told him to climb a tree and he would have tried.

Once they staggered into triage, Meg shaking from the effort, the sigh of relief that slipped from her was so enormous it almost brought her to her knees. It startled Joe into a dead halt, which in turn scared Meg into flinging herself in front of him and again grasping his shoulders to steady him.

"What's wrong? Is something wrong? Here, here's my hand." Breathy and urgent, Meg groped for Joe's right hand, hoping he would remember how to signal her. Two squeezes, and Meg felt her heart slow.

Dave started to chuckle from his corner of the room, but stifled the noise with coughing when she shot a sharp glare his way. The smile never faded from his face. "What's got you so rattled? You never get like this, Miss No Bullshit, but you're falling all over yourself on this one."

"Yeah, Dave, because I fucked up on this one. I got called out by Randy on this one, I lost the patient on this one, the patient passed out in the fucking hallway on this one, and in case you haven't noticed, I was by myself on this one when I walked the giant, non-verbal, only partially-ambulatory patient down here. I'm a little out of breath and I'm a little worried he's gonna pass out on this one."

Dave held his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. You win. Everything is prepped. We'll clean him up and then I'll call media once we have the EMLA in place. I'm not sticking a needle in him and neither are you. Go get something with some sugar in it so your hands are steady. I'll set the first stitch or two for pictures, you finish the rest. Sound good?"

Meg stopped paying attention after hearing that things were prepped. She steered Joe to the table and carefully turned him, hissing when his right hand dug into her hip for the second time. He was tall enough to be able to simply sit back once the table was behind him, and once he found purchase on the edge, his hand relaxed on Meg's hip. Joe didn't let go, though, and Meg found herself still holding his hand. Joe rolled his thumb slowly across the back of her hand and willed himself to open his eyes, have his vision clear, find his voice somehow, anything, before she vanished. _'You know she's going to disappear, idiot. You're imagining her. This isn't real.'_

"Here. Open your mouth. It's ice. Just let it melt." From her position, Meg could barely reach Dave's requisite pail of ice chips with her left hand, but managed to snag a few off the top. Dave watched, eyebrow arched, as she palmed all but one of the pieces and Joe tilted his head back slightly, lips barely parted. She touched the edge of the ice to his lower lip, rivulets of freezing water running down her wrist as the ice in her hand began to melt. Joe startled when the ice touched him, but stilled when Meg brushed a tendril of hair away from his face.

"Shh," she breathed, "No. Come here. You need this."

She touched the ice to his lips again, and this time the barest hint of his tongue came forward to ease the ice out of her fingers. She slid the next three ice chips into his mouth in much the same way, pausing only to again brush away a stray piece of hair. Her eyes were glazed – she wasn't looking at Joe as much as she was looking into him. He had the slightest hint of a smile on his face, and let out a small hum of satisfaction as she touched him. He knew, this time, that he could taste her. Her hands, her skin, the ice she put in his mouth – it didn't matter if he was crazy or dead, he now knew that she absolutely tasted like roses.

Dave felt very much like he was intruding on something oddly, deeply personal, something he wasn't meant to see. Slowly, quietly, he reached out to touch Meg's elbow. "Hon, come on. Go. Go get something to drink. I'll dry him off and numb him up, get media out here to shoot the first couple stitches, and then you can do your thing to fix him up. Go. Please?"

Meg seemed to snap out of it, and she placed Joe's hand gently in his lap while she spoke to him. "Okay. Back in a minute. I promised I would take care of you." Joe hadn't let go of her hip, and Meg had to close both of her hands around his before he released her. She rubbed at the spot his had had closed on and winced, an expression not lost on Dave, and wandered out toward the vending machines while casting several backward glances toward the men behind her. Dave's eyebrow still hadn't lowered. Once the door closed, he turned to Joe.

"Well. You've had an effect on her. Usually she's all, 'Shut the fuck up and get on the table,' but she was...overly nice to you. What happened out there?"

Feeling the effect of the glucose, and feeling much less like his throat was made of sandpaper thanks to the ice, Joe thought he would test out his voice. Better with Dave than with her.

"What is she?"

"Uh...what?"

"That...her. What is she?"

"Holy shit, how hard did Randy hit you? You know her, Joe. That's Meg. You've met Meg a hundred times. She's iced your ribs, taped your wrists, force-fed you ibuprofin, argued with you about knee pads...what do you mean, _what_ is she?"

"She tastes like roses."  
"Ooo-kay, Joe. Let's get you dried off, let's soften up the edges on that big nasty above your eye, and then let's get some EMLA on it. It's going to burn like a motherfucker, but it's better than the shot."

* * *

Dave scrubbed Joe down after placing a warm cloth on the gash above his eye. Ultimately, the whole scene had to be clean enough for media. After a 45 minute wait for the gel to work, it would be in with the photogs, Dave's two starter-stitches, out with the photogs, in with Meg, simple as that. Joe, pleased as punch that he tasted roses, was even kind enough to lay still on the table while the cameras flashed. That process complete, Meg took over, eyes never leaving Joe's prone body. Looking tired but less shaky, she seated herself near his head and slipped on a pair of gloves. Her smaller hands and longer fingers would be much better suited to finish the repair.

"Okay, I'm back. I'm going to take care of you. Except this time, you can't touch my hands, because I need them. Instead, I'm going give you a quarter. One, it means Dave can't be mad at me because it's proof I went to the vending machine."

At that, she smiled at Dave – the first genuine smile she had directed at him all night. She looked dazed and completely beyond rationality. Her eyes might have been on Dave, but her mind was absolutely elsewhere.

"What the fuck did you get out of the vending machine? MDMA? Are you even with us right now? I swear to God, Meg. You and I need to talk. Can you even do this right now? Did you get hurt getting him back here?"

Meg simply kept smiling and continued. "Two – and this is the important part – you're going to hold the quarter. If you need me to stop, I need you to drop the quarter. Drop the quarter if you understand what I just told you."

The quarter dropped to the floor. Dave tamped it under his foot and placed it back in Joe's hand, but not without nudging Meg with his shoulder as he bent toward the table. "Meg, you and I have to talk after this one. Seriously. What's wrong with you?"

Meg didn't hear him; she was entirely in her work, hands and wrists hovering around Joe's face, stitch in, out, her breath caramel-sweet from whatever she had wrested from the vending machine. Caramel and roses. The gloves muted the cold radiating from her skin, and Joe wanted to reach up and pull them off of her so he could feel her completely. _'No, idiot. She's real, she's got a name. And you've got a fiancee.'_


	4. Painting the Bitch

Once Meg's work was done, she washed her hands and stepped out of triage to stretch her back and peek at the bruises forming on her hip. Joe was doing much better, able to string together simple sentences and move around, albeit both came slowly. Hovering outside of triage, a pile of gym bags beside him, was Randy.

"You know, you basically lied." He tried for a glare, but looked more exasperated than anything.

"I know. And you can be pissed at me. But he's fine. And it turns out, he really was with Dave."

"You're lucky."

"I know that, too."

Randy's face cracked into a smile as he slid past her towards the triage door. "Nah. You put staples in my head too many times. I can't be pissed at you. I know you fixed my boy up – but seriously, stop fucking calling me 'Sir.' I hate that."

"Fair enough. Stop fucking yelling at me, and you've got a deal."

Randy stopped short. "What did you say?"

"He's in triage. Are you driving him to the hotel? He's sure as shit not driving himself."

"Lady, you have balls."

"It's Meg. Sir."

Randy snorted, smiled, and walked in. He winced when he saw Joe's face – the swollen black eye was bad enough on its own, but the stitched gash glossy with anti-bac gel was stomach-churning.

"C'mon, Joe. I'm taking you to the hotel. Shit's packed, let's roll."

Dave cut in. "Are you staying with him? He's got to have monitoring for at least the next 12 hours, and he's got to be kept awake."

"Me? No. Uh, I think his fiancee is with him on this trip, she should be around to keep him up."

"I hate to be an ass, but _think_ isn't gonna cut it on this one. I'm not blaming you, I'm blaming scripting, but he took a solid shot to the head. He absolutely needs to be monitored, it's not negotiable. And you should probably be the one to explain to him what happened. He has no memory of the match."

"Okay. I'll take care of that. She's around for the rest of it." Randy's voice flattened considerably at the notion of dealing with Joe's fiancee.

Meg stepped back into the room. "Does he have a phone?"

Everyone turned to look at her, with Randy speaking like she was a special sort of stupid.

"Of course he has a phone. Who _doesn't_ have a phone?"

Meg rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time that night.

"Give it here. I'm going to put the triage phone's number in his address book under 'W.' If anything goes wrong, at least it's an option. Dave and I aren't at the same hotel as you guys, but we can come and help. All he has to do is press nine on his phone and then send."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Randy was alternating between growling and pleading into that same phone, trying to steer the car and say anything he could to get Joe's fiancee to come back from the club and stay at the hotel for the night. After a long back-and-forth, he finally handed the phone to Joe, who winced as the bass from the club's sound system drilled directly in his still-reeling brain.

"Please," he rasped, "Just come back for a little while."

"This was the night we agreed I could go out with the girls! It's not fair if you go back on that. You take bumps all the time, and you've had concussions before. You'll be fine, baby. You always are."

"Please. Just...please."

Randy winced. This was not like Joe. He never sounded desperate for anything, least of all for the company of someone who should have dropped everything, including her martini glass, and come running double-quick. Joe waved the phone haphazardly at Randy, who swerved slightly as he pressed it back up to his ear, sighing before he spoke.

"Look. It's not like he just fell or just got hit or something small. He's really out of it."

"Yeah, I get that. Like I said, I'm coming back. Bye."

The call cut off, and all Randy could do was roll his eyes and keep driving. Joe idly rubbed his lower lip where Meg had touched him with the lip balm and then the ice.. He felt guilty; he promised his fiancee a night out with her friends from the company and roster, and now was in the way of it. He should have been more careful; he and Randy had pulled off that move a thousand times before. _'Way to fuck up everyone's night, Joe. Get back to the hotel, go to bed, and make it up to her tomorrow. Maybe even tonight if the floor stops spinning. And way to act like a fool with Meg.'_

* * *

Joe was met by his fiancee at the door to his room. Her face initially registered concern, but after Randy explained she would have to stay in for the rest of the night and keep him awake, concern changed to annoyance. Loud annoyance; Joe just wanted to lay down in a dark, quiet room and wish away the tilting, screeching remnants of the night. Instead, his fiancee argued with Randy and then told him to fuck off, followed by flicking on both lights over Joe's bed, sending him hurtling toward yet another bottomless pit of nausea.

"Baby, please. No. Turn them off?"

"Joe, come on. Is it that bad? So you got cut. And? Did something else happen?"

He tried to think. Randy explained it on the way to the car, and again in the car, and again on the way up to the room, but it was still hard to piece together in a way that made sense out loud.

"I...I don't know. I botched a move and when we hit, we..."

"Wait, _you_ botched the move?" His fiancee was incredulous.

"I don't...maybe? I don't remember. We hit each other."

"Yeah, but you're the one who got hurt." At that, she threw air quotes around the word 'hurt,' and sprang off the end of the bed. The alcohol in her system and the now-bouncing bed weren't helping things.

"Okay...baby, I don't know. I'm sorry. Just go back out, I'll be okay. Like you said."

"You mean it?" Her surprise was laced with caution.

"Yeah. I'll be fine. I made you a promise."

She sprang back onto the bed, squealing, and pounced on top of him, lavishing him with kisses that aggravated his already aching face and continued jostling the mattress in ways his stomach warned him against continuing.

"You are the _best_, hon."

"I'm sorry I -"

"Don't worry about it. You're gonna be fine. My Superman."

Her hands tangled through his hair as she pulled him up, hard, for a kiss. Joe's neck did more than twinge, as did his stomach, but he managed to return the gesture. His stitches tightened uncomfortably when she pressed herself down onto him, continuing to rake her hands roughly though his hair, grinding her hips against him through the thin fabric of her dress. It was getting harder and harder for him to think. The toehold he had in lucidity was slipping thanks to the rapid-fire conversation at ear-splitting volume, along with the lights he couldn't seem to get away from. _'She showed up. That's what matters. It's just a concussion. Been through this a dozen times. Stop spinning. Weren't there roses?'_

Joe winced when she pushed off of him, straddling him, away from his lips, but he was grateful for any sort of affection. Unshowered, likely still with blood in his hair, ugly from bruises and who knew what else – he hadn't seen himself in a mirror – his woman had come to him when he called. The room was spinning faster now. He would make any promise she wanted.

"Baby, stay out. Long as you want. You said I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Danielle has a room here and I can stay with her if you just want it quiet."

"Whatever you want." Joe pressed his eyes well past shut. She hadn't turned the lights off yet.

"Oh my gaw, you are the best! And we're still here tomorrow, so I can make it up to you with whatever _you_ want." Her tone was suggestive, using his words against him, and Joe felt her hands crawl up his inner thighs, massaging and pressing as they went. He couldn't give her a response, physical or otherwise, and her frustrated huff told him she wasn't thrilled.

"Baby...I'm sorry. Just…"

"Whatever, it's cool. We've been together forever, right? It's just one night. You stay here. I'm going back to the club, Dani has a room, you call if you need me." She grabbed her clutch and walked out the door, letting it slam behind her, leaving Joe laying precariously near the edge of the bed.

* * *

After a few minutes in blessed silence, Joe heaved one arm over his eyes to block the light and waved the other above his head, hoping to hit the light switch above his side of the bed. Successfully turning off one of the two bothersome lights and enjoying the partial blackness, he decided to chance a trip to the bathroom, look in a mirror, wash his face, even dare for a shower. Rolling slowly onto his side, Joe never expected the bed to drop out from under him and send him back to the floor. Groaning from the impact, he called out to his fiancee before remembering – she was gone. He closed his eyes and growled with frustration before the blackness slipped out from under him as well.

When he woke, the side of his face felt wet. The fog in his mind had cleared just enough to know he had re-injured his face, but not enough to know how long he had been laying there. _'I'm not fucking up anyone else's night. No calls. Get to the bathroom, clean up, and be a man. Jesus Christ, Joe, grow up.'_

Joe clung to the side of the bed, pulled himself over the edge and onto his hands, then slowly stood up. He watched the room reel around him and slammed his eyes shut again, wishing he had managed to turn off both lights. He slowly felt his way along the edge of the bed until his hands hit the nightstand and a small object on it. Randy had left Joe's phone. Joe struggled with the idea of taking it with him to the bathroom; he didn't want to bother his fiancee, he didn't want to bother Randy, and he was absolutely not going to call Meg. He picked the phone up anyway, and slipped it into his track pants. He didn't remember changing, but he probably had Randy to thank for it. Eyes closed, sliding along the wall toward what he hoped would be a bathroom, he kept telling himself all he needed was water.

Standing soon removed itself from the catalogue of options as Joe entered the bathroom. The trek from the bed to the sink had left him spent, and as he leaned forward to the mirror to inspect his face, he felt vertigo push him forward as his vision seized. The floor reached up for him again, and Joe vaguely realized he was falling for the third time that night. He didn't know what his head hit on the way down, only that he could feel more hot wetness on his face after hearing a dull thump echo repeatedly through his skull. _'She didn't stay, did she? Nobody stayed.' _His eyes rolled back into a pleasant, welcoming dark space as his stomach overrode common sense and vomiting finally was worth the effort.


	5. If It's Not Me, It's You

A/N: Sorry for the slow posting (I have wacky job hours) and the slow burn on this one. I promise, we're getting there. Stick with me. We've got to lay just a _little_ foundation for the smut, right? Thank you for all of the reviews, all of the messages, all of the views, and if you're looking for other authors, may I recommend the lovely kingfisherwings, mxjoyride, and irishcreamtruffle, depending on your level of *ahem* kink. Happy Reading!

* * *

Meg leaned in the doorframe of the triage bay and watched Dave accomplish everything and nothing at once. He cleaned without wiping, organized without arranging, packed without placing. Meg, mind elsewhere, glanced around the room, rolling a caramel around in her mouth, pressing it into discs and rounds while Dave worked.

"You know, I can help with - "

"Save it, Meg."

Meg sighed heavily. "Look, I know. I was out of it tonight. Jackson was shitty with me, I'm exhausted from dragging Joe around, I was terrified we fucked up in the first place, Randy was beyond angry, and my hip is killing me." At that, Meg tugged down the edge of her cargo pants, revealing an arch of fingerprint bruises over her right hip that were already deep red and blackening.

"Okay, and I get all that, but what the fuck was with the ice?"

"The wha?" It was Meg's eyebrows turn to arch and bobble.

"Do not play stupid with me, Meg." The edge in Dave's voice was unmistakeable. "I busted my ass to get you in here, you have...whatever Jackson is, and Joe has a fiancee. If you do anything to fuck this up, I will personally kill you before corporate has a chance to pull your contract."

"It's an internship, and I'm way too old for one of those, anyway. And what ice?"

"Meg, go get in the goddamned car."

Stunned into silence, Meg picked up her duffel and skulked out to the parking deck. She combed through the night in her head, going over everything she had done. Hand squeezes were an accepted way to communicate with a non-verbal patient; ice chips were given to patients who couldn't swallow safely. It wasn't what she had done, she decided, it was how she had done...something. Not to mention, in the 20 years Dave had put up with her, he had never chastised her like that. He had basically raised her, brought her back when she went off the rails, and kept her steadily moving forward. For him to be this terse, Meg thought, she had to have screwed up royally. Once Dave joined her in the car, a full 20 minutes later, Meg grabbed the steering wheel and refused to let go.

"Whatever you're doing, Meg, stop it."

"No. Everything I did tonight was acceptable practice. So what _else _did I do?"

Dave said nothing, merely reaching around her to turn over the ignition and move the gear shift. Once they were driving with the heater running to counter the night's chill, Dave spoke.

"You...whatever that was...Joe was completely out of it. _Beyond_ out of it. It looked like you were completely taking advantage of the situation and enjoying it. I don't know if you were having an off night or what, but that can't ever happen again. Neither one of you is in the right position."

Meg pressed herself back into the passenger seat, turned to face the side window, and threw the triage phone into the center console. She mentally declared herself through with the night, and wrenched her elastic band out of her hair, picking individual dark red hairs off of it and flicking them onto the floor of the car. "Just drive, Dave. Hotel. Bed."

* * *

Barely 15 minutes into their mutual stony silence, the triage phone's ringtone blared out, nearly scaring Meg out of her skin. Dave cast a sideways glance at her, but she made no move to answer it. Two rings, then three, and Dave sighed before dropping a hand off the steering wheel to pick up the phone.

"Medical and Triage, this is Dave."

"It's Randy. You need to get here." His tone was unnervingly calm.

Dave yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, grinding the car to a halt on the shoulder, breathing deeply before continuing. "What's going on?"

"I got Joe upstairs, his dumb bitch argued with me and then kicked me out of their room. I'm next door to him, so ten minutes later I hear her leave and then a thump, ten minutes after that, another thump. I bribed housekeeping to let me in his room, and Joe's laying in the bathroom in a puddle of vomit and blood."

"Jesus. We're coming. Can you tell where he's bleeding from?"

"No. Do you want me to look?"

"Don't move him. If anything changes, gets worse, or scares you, call for outside help."

"Right, because this didn't fucking scare me. Room 513. It's propped open." Dave could hear Randy nervously checking and re-checking the door, making sure it was open.

"Give me ten minutes."

Dave swung the car around and headed toward downtown Glasgow, getting caught at a light. "Fucking traffic," he muttered, "Meg, I need you to tune in on this one." Meg hadn't turned to listen to any part of the conversation, opting to keep snapping hairs off her elastic band. "Meg? I need your help."

"No, Dave, you made it perfectly clear I'm off my game tonight."

"Meg, I didn't want you to take it like that. I want you to avoid backstage sabotage. That's all."

"You're on your own. If it's that fucking serious, call whatever the Euro-equivalent of 911 is and leave me alone."

Behind them, a horn blared and Dave floored their car, nearly missing the light and slamming Meg back into her seat while he screamed at her and pounded a hand on the steering wheel. "Meg! You can't leave me with this! The only person he responded to was you! Even if you were wrong for it, it worked, and I need you. It doesn't matter how it worked, it worked!"

Meg's hip screamed when she was forced back into her seat by the momentum of the tiny car. There was little padding to cushion her, and Dave was livid now. Whatever she had or hadn't done, he was past his limit. She pulled her knees as as far up to her chest as she could, defensively, and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to brace for whatever the night would force on to her next.

Whispering, Meg asked, "Who?"

"You know who, Meg," Dave said, quietly, "Joe."

* * *

After another ten minutes of hard silence, Meg opted to trudge distantly behind Dave, hauling all of their gear and some of their luggage. It slowed her pace, destroyed her already ragged hip, and gave her time to think. She had wrapped her hair back into its requisite ponytail, and the cold air bit at her neck. Meg didn't know how to handle the situation she was about to walk in to, and knew the best course was to let Dave take the lead. She also knew, at 20 years his junior, that wouldn't happen. The expectation was that he would be able to sleep through most of it and she would be the one staying up all night to babysit and monitor. _'What am I doing? Something got in to me...I just need to see Jackson, get this shit out of my system. I'm so dumb. Get over it, Meg. There's carrying a torch, and then there's being hopeless and pathetic. Let's not live up to your name, okay?'_

A short elevator ride, and Dave and Meg were swept into Joe's hotel room by Randy. Obviously agitated and anxious, Dave's first concern was calming him down. "Meg, you've got Joe. I've got Randy."

"Uh, don't you think it would be better if I-"

Randy grabbed Meg by the arm and shoved her toward the bathroom. "You heard him! Didn't you hear him? Go! Go check on Joe!"

Meg staggered from the shove, but kept her footing and rubbed gingerly at her arm. "Randy...it's going to be okay. Go with Dave. I'm going to take care of Joe. Dave needs to make sure you're okay. Go on, go with Dave. I've got Joe. He's safe."

Dave locked eyes with Meg. "Randy and I are going to Randy's room. You are on your own. If you need anything, you call."

Meg was incensed. "Dave, what the fuck? After that lecture? No! This is a setup! What the fuck do you think-"

"Meg, I'm exhausted, Randy needs to calm down, and the only person Joe responded to was you. I told you what the problem was. Correct it and move along. Go."

Meg dropped all of the bags to the floor, and Dave steered Randy past her heap out into the hallway, muttering assurances that Joe would be fine and that he knew she would call next door if she needed help. Randy wasn't convinced; neither was Meg. Sliding around Joe's bulk into the bathroom and trying to work in the dim light from the single lamp above the bed, she crouched next to him and assessed the situation. His breathing was again shallow, and he met Randy's description to a tee. Grabbing a towel and cradling Joe's neck, Meg slid the thick terrycloth under him. _'At least he doesn't have to lay in his own runoff. Wonder what his fangirls would think of him now – not such a pretty face,'_ she mused. Luckily, his stitches had held, but Joe had managed to cut the inside of his mouth in several places by crashing into the counter on his way to the floor. All told, Meg considered, nothing was wrong with him other than exacerbating what she already knew, cutting his mouth, and knocking his ass out cold. _'Even Randy should have been able to figure that much out,'_ Meg giggled, _'He must have been fearing for his Bromance.'_

Deciding she could reach the tub easier than the sink, Meg threw the entire week's worth of washcloths in and turned the water to hot. If nothing else, she figured, she could clean Joe's face and hair before trying to rouse him. There was no sense in getting him in to bed covered in his own filth, and he might be more willing to cooperate if he felt less like he'd been hit by a truck.

Waiting for the water to heat and leaning over Joe with one hand under his neck, Meg tried rolling him over onto his back. She almost immediately snapped at herself. "Oh, and what did I think I was going to accomplish with that? Come on, Joe, I need you to help me." Wringing the water out of a washcloth, Meg slowly wiped down Joe's chest and as much of his right arm as wasn't under him. Gently turning his face and reaching for a second cloth, Meg hissed when she saw how deeply bruised and swollen his eye had become from repeated impacts and a lack of ice. "Joe...come on. Please. I need you to wake up now. _You_ need you to wake up now."

Leaning over him to try to get a better look at his stitches, she didn't notice the charm on her necklace slip from her shirt. Meg's perpetually cold skin had chilled the metal of the St. Julian medallion, and it tapped against Joe's temple on its backswing. She returned to alternating between rinsing washcloths and wiping his face and hair, trying to clean him as best she could from her awkward position on the floor. "Come on, Joe. I promised to take care of you."

_'...Help me...Need you...Wake up now...'_ Joe wasn't sure what he was hearing. A vaguely familiar voice was registering with him, but he couldn't place why or how he knew it, or where or who it was coming from. Something cold was tapping the side of his head, but Joe was confused – something warm was wiping his face. He inhaled deeply. _'I promised I would take care of you.'_

Roses. More roses, and some vague, small hint of caramel, and Joe tried to force open his eyes. The world registered sideways, then as a set of cabinets in dim light. He felt light, freezing hands on his face, wiping gently through his hair, and the sound of running water somewhere behind him. The hands left him, briefly, and returned, along with her voice. _'What's going on, Joe? Your roses are here...? Don't let them leave again, Joe. Whatever this is has to stay.'_

Blindly, Joe flung his left arm in the air. Meg had her back to him, tilted over the tub to turn it off, and when she leaned to return to Joe, his arm crashed down on top of her, blindsiding her, throwing her headfirst into the same cabinets he had plunged face-first into earlier that night. Momentarily, her vision blanked out, and she struggled to breathe as she felt Joe's arm crush down on her waist. His right hand flew up from under him, tangling in the neck of her shirt, her hair, the chain of her necklace, pulling her further down over him, craning her neck at an impossible angle and giving her even less ground to use to push off of him.

Meg was starting to panic – the size and strength difference was nothing she was going to overcome on her own. Then, just as suddenly as Joe had pinned her over his side, he was on his back, dragging her up his chest, hand still tangled in her hair, using her shirt to move her. Meg pedaled her hands wildly up the floor tiles until Joe stopped dragging her up his length – her face was directly over his, and they both tried to catch their breath and decide what the next move should be. Meg's eyes were still watering from the sting of hitting her head, and her neck was still bent in Joe's grip.

"Don't leave anymore." His voice was pure desperation.

"Okay. Okay, Joe. I won't leave. I need you to let go of me, though."

"No."

"Joe, please. I hit my head, too. It hurts."

The hand mauling her hair and shirt let go, briefly, and Meg started to straighten up, but Joe only slid that hand around to the back of her neck and dug his fingers in. "I need you to stay. She didn't stay."

The arm around her waist tightened dangerously, and Meg again feared for her ability to breathe. Dave wasn't going to like how she was about to play this, but she didn't want to asphyxiate, either. Meg moved her hands to meet Joe's, gently massaging his fingers and the backs of his hands, and she settled her weight over her hips, trying to feel more solid over him and trying to ignore the tug she felt in her heart. Meg, for all her outward composure, had always been in carefully-concealed inner turmoil over Joe.

"Alright, Joe. I'm staying. I'm right here. I need you to trust me, though. Just like before." She eased his fingers out of the snarled remains of her ponytail. "Let me reach up and get this out of my hair, okay? I'm not leaving. You've got my other hand, but this mess with my hair hurts." Meg, smart enough to move slowly – and Joe, watching every blurry move – dragged the elastic out of her hair and rolled it down her wrist. She slid her hand back over Joe's. "There, see? I didn't leave. You know we're on the floor, right, Joe? We should get off the floor."

"No. If you get up, you'll leave like she did."

Meg leaned down toward his face, as close as she dared. The Saint Julian medallion brushed Joe's neck along the way, and Joe arched his throat forward as she leaned toward him. _'You're making her stay. She said she won't leave and she's on top of you and she feels so good and how is she always so fucking cold?'_

Meg brushed her cheek against his – he was clean enough, now, smelling largely of hotel soap – and her brain screamed at her to stop, to listen to Dave, to back off because now she had hit her head, was indulging herself, and nothing about this was right. But she kept going.

"Joe, listen to me. I'm right here. You said I smell like roses. I'm real. You can feel me. You're holding me, holding my hands. I just want to get you to the bed and get you some ice. I promise you, I won't leave you. I came back tonight, didn't I?"

She backed off enough to watch him struggle through the expressions on his face, partly from pain, and partly from emotional exhaustion. "You came back."

"Okay. So you can trust me. I'll leave my things here, too. The only thing I need to get is ice."

"No. You said you-"

"Shh," she pressed two fingers to his lips, "I said I'm leaving my things and I'm coming back."

Joe tightened his grip momentarily, then loosened it, but reached up to her fingers against his lips. Meg, slowly unseating herself from over him, paused and watched what he was doing with her hand. Joe, eyes now shut, throat still tilted slightly upward, took each of her fingertips from his lips into his mouth. Meg felt her jaw drop slightly when Joe nipped them, kissed them lightly, and then pressed her hand to his chest. For the first time, Meg truly understood the size and depth of his tattoo. The rest of the room, however, had fallen away entirely.


	6. Conspiracy Theory

_'Okay, Meg. Breathe. Breathe. You both are so out of it right now. He probably thinks you're his fiancee. Just get him off the floor. He's okay, you're okay, get him off the floor.'_

Meg realized her entire body was shaking, and forced herself to push down any ideas that didn't involve hunger or fatigue. "Joe, come on. Sit up with me. We can't stay on the floor." From Joe's side, she tried to slide an arm under his shoulders and help him lift himself forward, but her angle was again terrible. The space was just too small, even with Joe's marginal effort to help._ 'Whatever cosmic being out there is conspiring against me right now, please stop_,' Meg thought, _'Because I can't take much more of this, and Dave is going to fire me himself.'_

"Okay, Joe. New plan. Hold still." Meg lifted her hand from his chest and slid that arm behind him, placed a knee between his legs, and braced her other leg against the doorframe. "Just try to sit up with me, okay? I'm still here. When you feel me move, move with me." She pulled as hard as she could, thrusting her leg into the doorframe, and almost dropped Joe entirely when she felt every muscle across his chest and stomach tense against her as they began to move upright. '_Meg, no. Don't. Don't let go because he's gonna fall, but don't do this. Dave was right, and you are fucking up. He's confused. Please, God, just let him be confused.' _Joe wrapped his arms around her back, and his head fell forward into the crook of her neck.

His breath was hot against her skin, and the scruff of his beard rasped up and down against her collarbone. Meg felt his arms tighten down the length of her spine, and he lifted her up against his chest, murmured about roses, whispered something about caramel, why she was cold, his lips brushing her neck, then her jawline, and reality slammed into her – Joe was not only raising his lips towards hers, but at some point she had pulled her leg from the doorframe behind him up against his back, drawing him in, and hadn't taken her arms from behind him. _'Meg, get up. Right. Now. You're not his fiancee.'_

Slowly, she lowered her leg and slid her arms away from him, cupping the sides of his face and easing him backwards to look at her. "Joe? Joe, I need you to look at me. Do you know my name?"

Joe, eyes open as much as he could muster, looked directly up into Meg's face, never moving his hands from her back. "I know...roses. I know," his features gentle and calm for the first time since her arrival, "Meg. You came back. Don't leave anymore, Meg."

_'Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit,'_ Meg screamed at herself in her head,_ 'I didn't mean to...it's not just...now what the fuck do I do? Calm down. Keep him calm, and you calm down.'_

Offering a small, shaky smile, Meg nodded, having every intent of reaching behind her to help him release his grip on her spine. Her fingers had other ideas, and she began to rub small circles over his temples with her thumbs. Joe closed his eyes and pulled Meg into him firmly. Shaking her head to clear it, Meg slid her hands down to his shoulders and gently pushed Joe back again. He shivered and gripped the back of her shirt in his hands.

"Don't _leave_, Meg. Don't."

"I'm not, Joe. I won't. But we need to stand up. We can't stay in here. Let go for just a second - I'm only going to move behind you after we talk."

Crouching between his legs and forcing him to look her in the eyes, Meg filled a plastic hotel cup with water and offered him shallow sips while explaining how he would have to get his feet underneath him for a second time that night. She couldn't afford another fall. He could be hurt, she could be pinned, any number of things could go wrong. Scooting behind him and latching her arms as far as she could around his chest, Meg asked if he was ready.

"Meg...just stay. Don't leave."

"I'm going to stay. And that didn't answer my question, so here we go. When I move, you move with me. Push straight up, just like before. Don't walk yet."

Heaving upward as hard as she could, she felt him rise shakily with her, and so quickly tipped herself toward the counter. It didn't matter if he landed on her upright against the counter, as long as they _stayed_ upright. In her daze, Meg had forgotten it would be her _right_ hip making impact first, and her leg almost went out from under her. She slammed her face into Joe's back, never realizing she dug her nails into his chest, trying to stifle yet another scream and regretting for the millionth time that she told him to hold on to her as hard as he needed to. She broke out into a cold sweat, and white light rolled over her eyes in waves. Panting, she shifted as much as she could to turn their collective weight from her right side and turn toward the bed.

Joe simply felt vertigo haul him upwards yet again, and then suddenly the world tilted until his hands pressed into the edge of something solid. Sudden pinpricks of pain flashed across his chest where her hands were, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. _'She's still here, those are her arms, her hands, she didn't go. Her hands feel so...what was that?'_

"Okay...Joe," Meg struggled to catch her breath and compose herself, "Slide along the counter with me until you feel the doorframe. We're going to do the reverse of...whatever the fuck you did to get in here. I think. Just move with me. I'm right here."

"No."

Meg felt the brakes slam on again._ 'Oh Jesus Christ NOW WHAT; my leg is going to break off if I don't get him to a bed. Please, please, please Joe, just move. Please just move._'

"What do you mean 'No,' Joe? What's wrong? Come on, move with me."

"You did something. Your hands." Joe, still not completely back to the land of the fully-composed, also wasn't as far gone as he had been a few minutes ago. He simply refused to move, knowing she couldn't force him. The constant motion of her cold hands, her voice – pleasant, but firm, that omnipresent perfume of hers, the water, all were bringing him back from whatever ether he had been in. _'Don't lie, Joe. Holding her, too. You know what you felt, holding her. You're lucky she didn't feel it.'_

"My head hurts, that's all." She wasn't going to chance upsetting him over her hip. Not when he put the bruises there. Not to mention, she didn't know what he meant about her hands.

"Meg, don't lie."

"Joe, we need to lay down. Just move with me. Your head hurts, too." Meg kicked herself as soon as it slipped from her mouth. _'We, dumbass? No, HE needs to lay down. You need to take a cold shower and call your boyfriend or join a convent. And you need to figure out what you did with your hands, because it better not have been anything stupid.'_

The only word that registered with Joe was 'we.' He resumed shuffling along with her behind him, feeling the texture of the wallpaper under his palms, then edge of the bed against his leg. "Okay, Joe. You're here. Just lean to your right, I'm going to lean with you." Meg didn't have a choice on this one; she had to at least guide him onto the bed to make sure he didn't hit the floor again. However, she was going to make a fast exit from behind him and hightail it to the ice machine. He leaned, but brought his hands up over hers on his chest as he moved. _'You fucker. You sneaky fucker, now what am I-' _Meg's internal rant was cut off as his tilt became a fall and she had to yank her right leg up underneath her to catch herself from flipping entirely and being unable to steady him. This time, there was nothing she could do to catch her cry of pain, but she did manage to prevent him from going over deadweight onto the bed.

"You lied."

Blinking hard and trying to push herself away from Joe's massive back, Meg had to struggle to get enough space to talk. "Lied about what, Joe? I'm still here."

"You said your head hurt."

"And you think flipping onto a bed wouldn't make it hurt more?" Sarcasm likely wouldn't help the situation, but Meg was out of options.

"That's not the only thing."

Joe dragged his legs onto the bed as he rolled, scooping hers along under his. _'Well, this is great. I'm half-stuck under him, on the side that hurts, and I think he's about to roll on top of me. Hey, Cosmic Being, can I please get some fucking ice now?'_

"Am I on the bed?" The fall to the bed was a bit faster than he anticipated it being, as though he had forgotten how tall he was and how far down he had to go to before he hit mattress.

"Yeah, but I'm kinda stuck. Can I move a little, please?"

"You won't leave?"

"We've been over this. I have to get ice. I'm coming back." Sarcasm gave way to annoyance, and Meg quickly shut her mouth. She knew it wasn't helping things, nor was it his fault that he was so rattled.

"No."

Meg pounded her one available fist on the mattress and flailed until she was able to drag herself out from under him. Out of sheer frustration, she slammed her hands down on the fronts of his shoulders, leaned as far over him as she could, and brought her face precipitously close to his.

"Listen. To. Me. You need ice. I need ice. There is no ice in this room. I have to go get the ice. You're right, I lied. My head does hurt; so does my hip. I am coming back. All of my shit is in your room; you are in this room, and tonight I am supposed to be watching you. Stop arguing with me and let me do my job. My job is getting the fucking ice."

Joe watched the medallion on her necklace dangle over his throat for the second time that night. Even angry, her body threw no heat, just fragrance. _'How does that happen?'_ Then, for the second time that night, crumpling the back of Meg's shirt in one hand and tangling her hair in the other, he pulled her towards him, this time not stopping until he pulled her into a fragile kiss, afraid if he let go she would shatter into the frozen rose petals he swore he remembered, and he would be alone again.


	7. When You Can't Have Your Walk of Shame

Welcome back! Again, thank you for all of the R&amp;R. This chapter will be brief; I promise, we're getting to the good stuff. The *good* stuff.

* * *

Meg froze. She couldn't fight Joe; one of his hands was locked into her shirt and the other was snarling through her hair. Even if she had tried, she knew from every prior attempt that night it would only cause him to tighten his grip. She hadn't moved, hadn't even breathed, and then the moment was over before she could formulate a retort, a plan, an escape – anything. Joe had simply let go of her, his hands slowly sliding across her back and out of her hair.

"Joe," Meg breathed out, quietly, "I'm not-"

"I know, Meg. Not my fiancee. Go get the ice. Come back. You promised."

Gently, she pushed herself up from his shoulders and looked at him with complete bewilderment on her face before sliding off the bed and backing out of the room, ice pail in hand. Joe breathed deeply, inhaling as much of her perfume as he could in case she decided to run rather than return. She tasted like the roses he remembered, with undertones of whatever caramel thing she had eaten earlier. He smiled slightly to himself. It would be at least another minute before Meg came back, maybe more if she stopped along the way, and her taste was something he could keep. He hadn't meant to upset her; rather, Joe had meant to settle them both and didn't understand any of it himself. He only knew she was here and his fiancee wasn't. And now he and Meg were together the rest of the night. _'She's going to ask me why. I don't know. I needed to know...what did I need? I don't know. I needed her.'_

By the time Meg returned, ice pail overflowing, Joe had begun looking expectantly at the door. Meg wrapped some of the ice in a now-damp washcloth and gently pressed it to his eye, then let herself into the bathroom to check her hip. An arc of angry red, black, and green bruises had formed along with a line from her impact with the bathroom counter; Meg cursed her anemia silently. Emerging with a hand towel, she packed it with ice and slid it between the waist of her pants and her skin, curling tightly into the loveseat against the opposite wall of the room.

After several minutes of total silence, Joe finally broke. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. You took at least three solid shots to the head; you were probably confused about who I was, where you were, all that. Plus, we have to work together. Let's not make it awkward."

"But I wasn't-"

"And neither was I, and I was doing the same thing. How's your eye feeling with the ice?" Meg cut him off sharply, knowing that the road their conversation was headed down was dangerous. _'I want to know what you were thinking, but no good way to ask that, is there? You don't need to hear me pining after you like a soppy little girl.'_

Joe sighed. "Better. I still feel out of it. Tilted, kind of."

"You will, for a few days. Don't tell, but you have a concussion. Unfortunately, since you're the company golden boy, you're only going to get a day or two off, tops. Policy and practice aren't the same thing."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I've wrestled fucked up so many times it's sad."

"I'll do what I can to keep you together. Dave will, too. We're pretty good at patchwork."

Joe tilted a smirk. "And what about you? What happened?"

Meg flinched visibly. "Enh, nothing. Tripped over you in the bathroom, basically. You take up a fair amount of real estate."

"And if I call bullshit on that?"

"Then I still wouldn't tell you the truth."

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Joe sighed, this time with a frown. "Meg, really, if something I-"

"Nope. Next? If there's not a next, I can get Randy to sit with you. You guys probably have more to talk about, anyway. Shit about your match, or whatever." Meg moved to stand up, and winced in organizing herself to rise from her seated position, giving up entirely on the idea of ice for her hip.

"Okay, okay. You win. C'mere, pick out a movie. It's all on Vince's tab, anyway. I'm not supposed to sleep, and you can't see the TV from there."

Meg tensed. Her leg didn't feel like it could carry her across the room, and she was skittish about being that close to Joe._ 'Meg, stop. Stop for a second. You just talked it out. It's done. Just sit on the edge of the bed, keep the ice on his eye, and watch the fucking movie. It's done. You weren't the one who started kissing people. If he does it again, you leave. That's that.'_ The confidence of having made a decision buoyed her, and Meg slowly felt her stomach uncoil. She shifted slightly forward. "Fine. It's going to take me a minute to get over there. In the mean time, process of elimination. No rom-coms. Your turn."

"You really are hurt, aren't you?" Joe's voice edged through concern and into worry.

"I'm going to head for the door if you ask me again."

"No, you aren't. You promised me you wouldn't leave."

_'Fuck him for remembering.'_ Meg glared, but shuffled further forward toward the foot of the bed. "Your turn. I said no rom-coms."

"Nothing sad."

"Fair enough. Tell me what time it is?" While Joe searched, bleary-eyed, for the numbers on the bedside clock, Meg took the opportunity to massage her hip and lunge forward a few feet. She didn't want to stay vertical any longer than she needed to. The loveseat was comfortable, but the bed included blankets and pillows. It had to be an improvement.

"It's...1:45 in the morning."

"Well, then our options are limited. I'll call it for either action or horror, since we both know that's all that's going to be on."

Meg sat, turning, onto the foot of the bed. She managed to stay upright, but the trek up the bed toward anything resembling a pillow was still a long way away. Joe toggled through channels while she contemplated how to scoot upward. Giving up, Meg simply laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Meg, reach your arms above your head." Joe's voice was firm. "I can pull you up here. It's not gonna hurt me, you're a whole five pounds."

"Joe, leave me alone. I'm fine."

"You also can't watch me from down there."

Meg's mind struggled to keep itself in places free of prurient thought, at that comment. "Put the ice back on your eye and keep talking. I'll know your fine if you keep making noise."

"I need help with the ice." _'Joe, you're an asshole for this.' __In truth, the ice hadn't moved an inch from where Meg originally placed it, but for reasons he couldn't articulate, Joe wanted her next to him._

Meg rolled onto her stomach from her position on the bed, and using her left leg, pushed her way up to him in one fluid motion. Joe's eyes followed the line of her hair, the angle of her collarbone, and that persistent one-two-one-two swing of her necklace. "What's wrong? The ice, or something with your eye? Here – hang on, I need a little light." Rather than try to squint in the darkness, Meg tipped off of the bed and forced herself to limp over to the curtains, pushing them partially open. The moonlight was enough to give the room some glow without causing Joe any significant discomfort, and she dragged herself back to the bed.

Leaning in, Meg pressed her palms to Joe's neck and jawline, tilting him slowly to and fro, but staying physically distant._ 'You scared her, asshole. Good job. You wanted her here, and it's just like she's gone. And your actual fiancee is where, exactly?'_

"Nothing looks out of place. I'm already up here; I'll just hold the ice. You pick the movie. I'll even be nice and add kung fu to the list of movie options."

_'That's better. At least she's here. Really here. Don't do that, Joe. She's telling you to stop, she's trying to save...whatever. Her thing, your thing.'_ Meg moved closer to Joe's right eye and gently pressed the ice to it. He winced slightly but allowed her to continue, especially when she leaned on his arm and adjusted the pressure. Meg's fingers danced across his tattoo for a bare second, and once she settled the washcloth in a position she was satisfied would help him, she leaned back against the pillows next to Joe, her arm reached awkwardly across both of their bodies.

"Just talk to me." Joe poked up and down on the remote, finally landing on a movie that looked to have enough ridiculousness to keep them both amused without being annoying, but not actually starting it.

"Talk about...what?"

"I don't know. Anything. You said you had to keep me awake."

"Okay. How about practical concerns? Like...when is your fiancee going to be back, so I don't get beaten to death by a hungover chick with a makeup bag who wants to know why a stranger is in bed with her man?" Meg smiled and nudged Joe a bit; she didn't want him to think she was taking an actual shot at him.

Joe chuckled, deeply resonant, and Meg's entire body vibrated with his. "She's with one of her girlfriends tonight. Got mad at Randy, got...weird...with me...and angry, I guess...and then left."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. We go through shit like this all the time, we'll be fine." Strangely, Joe smiled when he spoke. It was taut, and Meg couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable with, or irritated at, her apology.

Meg's chest wrenched at the idea of Joe being 'fine' with someone who wouldn't or couldn't be bothered to stay with him when he was so obviously hurting. _'Not my business. He's happy, good for him.'_

"Well. Great. What'd you pick?" Meg tucked her St. Julian medallion back under the neckline of her shirt and pointed at the TV.

Joe felt Meg shut down, watched the necklace disappear, felt the air tense around him, but didn't know what to do. He thought she would relax at the idea of his fiancee being gone for the night – he didn't expect her to jump on him – but he thought she might talk more openly, come closer to him. He didn't understand why Meg suddenly closed off. She stayed still next to him, held the ice to his eye, and allowed the room to drift into a nasty, oily quiet. Joe closed his eyes. _'I did everything wrong, tonight. When I wake up, none of this happened. Back to my life. Same for her. What was I trying to get her to tell me, anyway?'_

"I...I don't know. I don't know what I picked."

They both stared blankly ahead until they dozed off despite warning each other not to do so, waiting for the inevitable blare of a cell phone's alarm clock set too early to be healthy.


	8. Sticky-Icky

Joe's alarm went off at five. Meg extricated herself from under his arm, hoping to simply be rid of the awkwardness between them. Her luck had run out, though she didn't know it. Joe was awake and silently watching as she eased off the bed and took several timid steps forward, testing out her hip. Her shirt was a wrinkled mess; he could see the twists where he had grasped it before he kissed her. Meg turned to look at him. _'Fix the blanket, dumbass. He's going to know you're gone if his side is cold. Keep him in bed so you can get out of here and Randy can get in here.'_

Cat-like, she crept back to his side, adjusted his covers, and let a small smile creep across her lips. "Like this," she whispered, "You're not half bad. Your hair is going to be the end of me, though." She brushed a few stray strands away from Joe's face, allowing her touch to linger along his cheekbones. He felt something in him break as her fingers trailed along, feeling something further inside himself stop moving entirely.

Inching over to Randy's room, suitcase in tow, Meg woke him and directed him to Joe with a set of instructions to keep him functional and get him on the plane. As for Dave; Meg pushed him into their rental car and drove as far and as fast from the hotel as she could. Breakfast anywhere, a plane ride much later in the day, and back on the road in the US.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Randy nudged Joe into semi-alertness, then plopped himself on the same end of the loveseat Meg had occupied earlier. He couldn't help but smile as her fragrance came up from the fabric. _'Well, at least they behaved themselves and she stayed over here. There's my girl.' _The smile faded from Randy's face faded as watched Joe's face race from one emotional extreme to another. "Uh, Joe? You okay? You need something? I can get you some Motrin or whatever…"

"Just get me out of here."

Randy cocked an eyebrow, but acquiesced, knowing they'd have plenty of time to talk on their flight. Which was unfortunate, because it ended up being plenty of time for stony silence, and nothing was brought up, either to Randy or to Joe's fiancee.

* * *

Joe's fiancee returned to his life, to hotel room after room, to being frequently hung over and demanding sex before she showered after her long nights out. Her sickly-sweet jasmine perfume mixed with the smell of a hundred cigarettes and fruity alcohol, and Joe found himself drifting off mid-coitus to memories of winter-cold hands, field roses, and caramel whispers. If he closed his eyes, or just fucked her from behind - _'Is that where I am now, really? Fucking? Can't I look at her? Or don't I want to?'_ \- he could push the memories down long enough to finish, but it was never satisfying. Something gnawed at him for months, and watching Meg walk around backstage, a strange glaze over her eyes, making paper cranes out of caramel wrappers, sometimes ducking into corners with her phone, always leaving a trail of rose perfume in her wake, did nothing to help him.

In the months that passed since Joe kissed her, since he told her everything was fine between him and his fiancee, she had locked him out. Not spoken with him, not waved hello or goodbye, made no effort to run in to him – everything he needed had been run through Dave, right down to the last puny Tylenol. Dave hadn't given any indication he knew what happened, so Joe had to assume Meg's one-woman embargo was all of her own doing. He looked for her, and then looked for ways to stay away from her, believing it was what she wanted and trying to make himself believe it was what he needed.

Joe felt himself tighten, coil, tamped full of buckshot. Days of irritation turned into weeks that boiled and then months filled with pathetic, directionless wrath. It begat and became a physical ache. He pushed harder in the gym, drove himself harder and harder into that thing – that _fiancee_ – in his bed, worked stiffer and stiffer in the ring, locked himself away. Nothing came to him. No solution, no crack in the wall of misery around him.

Strangely – or not – his fiancee didn't push him on the issue. She came to him when she needed attention, wanted to shop, or was ready to fall into bed with him. Joe noticed she started to travel with him more often. At first, he appreciated the renewed attention, but it all became so repetitive. Wake up, get laid, work out, get laid, do whatever promotional thing the company wanted him to do, perform, back to the hotel, get laid, collapse into bed feeling like he was crawling out of his skin and vacuous monotony was crawling in to replace him.

There, Joe thought, was the issue. His fiancee. She showed up, came, came again, on top of him, under him, and then went as she pleased. Her body was toned, but always reminded his hands of hot, waxy plastic. Her perfume was rancid and cloying; Joe could smell it even after he showered. Her face was beautiful, but Joe counted the minutes, then hours, she spent painting layer after layer of cosmetic garbage onto it. He started to notice the sideways glances that were directed at him in the halls, at arenas, in the gym – he wasn't hearing anything specific, not yet – but knew he had to tell her to cut back on the clubs, stay in with him...and ask why she didn't want to in the first place.

Meg wasn't faring any better. She hardly slept, lived off of Diet Dr. Pepper and whatever food Dave put down in front of her and demand she eat instead of shove from side to side of the plate, and rarely spoke unless it was to Jackson. Despite her crumbling exterior, her talent in triage was unparalleled. Meg could have had five minutes of sleep and still been at the top of her game when it came to taking care of the performers. Dave, however, could see the explosion roiling under her surface. He knew better than to push the issue, and experience taught him it was likely something having to do with her heart's resident imbecile – her boyfriend, Jackson. He didn't know how wrong he was.

Eventually, Meg started to bum cigarettes from other interns and then finally, buy them herself. Her already thin budget was stretched further when her Dr. Pepper was suddenly being mixed with Southern Comfort, though Dave took solace that she kept that vice strictly off-hours. He began to wonder if her derailment was more than just Jackson, but every time he asked her how she was doing, Meg simply smiled thinly and shrugged. Dave resigned himself to having a deaf-mute for a working partner and told her he trusted her to come to him when she was ready.

_'Am I ever going to be ready to tell you how stupid I am? It's easier for me to implode like I'm supposed to, and let you blame Jackson. None of this should fall on Joe. He said things were fine. Why do you even care, Meg? Why can't you get him out of your head? Because you're a guilty, dirty bitch, that's why. Because you still see every line in his tattoo, because you can't touch hotel soap, because you always keep the hotel curtains closed.' __Meg gave herself the same speech every time Dave questioned her, every time she laid eyes on Joe, and loathed herself for how little of her internal pep-talk she believed._

From what Meg could tell, things really were fine for Joe. The company continued to push him, he was constantly busy at corporate events, and his fiancee was with him on the road more than ever. It even seemed like he was actively avoiding her, and that was well enough, too. _'Meg, you're a liar. It's not fine. You stupid, spiteful little girl. You want to ruin everything for him, don't you? Selfish. Why aren't you happy with what you have? '_

Meg tried to call Jackson more often, but the conversations typically turned from idle chatter to him berating her for her job choice, for not leaving and coming home, for her horrible hours, for not acting like a 'normal girlfriend.' That was usually when Meg would disappear around a corner, so nobody would see her slouch to the floor and rest her head on her knees, refusing to cry, but feeling like her world was falling out from under her. _'I want to love you, you asshole. I want to say that to you, too. And somehow you're going to hurt me if I tell you.'_ Instead, she'd stare at her phone and go numb as Jackson's voice oozed out of it and crawled across the floor.


	9. You Oughta Know, Alanis

**Trigger Warning for the end of the chapter - It earns the M rating here.**

* * *

Strangely, it was Randy who broke first. He watched Joe tear himself apart inside and out: gym routines that should have hurt him, schedules that should have exhausted him, and worst of all, that fiancee. She stayed out late, kept him up late, drained him emotionally, financially, and physically. Worse still, Randy couldn't get Joe to say anything about it. Not what caused it, not what might make it stop, not a word. He had tried talking in the gym, he tried getting him fairly drunk, he even tried getting him extremely drunk. That attempt had come the closest; he had managed to translate slurred speech into something about wishing he picked a movie and wanting cold hands.

Then, there was Meg. Meg, who never smoked, rarely drank, didn't sneak around with her phone, was now coming apart at the seams. Edging toward too-thin even on the best of days, Randy could now count Meg's ribs through her shirt if she leaned over far enough. She looked miserable, exhausted, and completely lost in her own skin. Randy preferred to be oblivious to most backstage dramatics, but something was festering here that was rotting the cores of two people he cared about. He knew he couldn't get more out of Joe, but Meg looked like she could explode at any moment, and permanently at that. He was going at her after their next show, and he planned on coming away with answers.

"Okay, sister. Time to 'fess up."

Meg jumped about a foot in the air when Randy's giant hand landed on her shoulder, and he winced when he felt how angular she had become. _'Jesus, maybe we should do this over a burger and fries.'_

"Time to...what the fuck are you talking about?" Meg was beyond confused.

"Something's up with you. Put the cigarettes and the booze away for the night. Actually, bring the booze. It might help. You're coming up to my room, we're ordering something to eat, and I'm going to break your phone if I have to. You're going to tell me what's going on."

"No. I have shit to do tonight and I don't have time for-"

Shrugging, Randy picked her up and dumped her over his left shoulder. "Easy or hard, Meg, your choice. Where's your bag?" The entire world rolled under her, and some sort of high-pitched vowel sound welled up in her throat. Scared, Randy flipped her back to her feet and held her upright. "What? What just happened?" Meg's eyes were wide but she didn't say anything, waiting for her vision to return from sparkling purple to full-color, knowing her blood pressure had dropped precipitously. Once the world stopped swirling, she groped for her phone.

"Okay. Okay, fine. You win. Just don't do that shit again. Let me text Dave and tell him where I'm going."

"How about _you_ don't do that shit again?" Randy shook his head. "Between you and Joe, man. You two scare me." Meg just shook her head.

* * *

The drive to the hotel was, as Randy expected, silent. Meg stared blankly out the passenger window, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, while Randy surreptitiously glanced at her._ 'Whatever it is, it's both of them, and it started after I cut Joe. So, that night. Something happened that night.'_

Meg was on auto-pilot as she followed Randy up to his suite. She sat on the end of his bed and stared blankly ahead as he walked his suitcase to the closet, made a few brief phone calls, and then crouched in front of her.

"Hey. You in there?" He poked her in the knees. _'You could cut glass on those. I'm gonna stop calling her Meg and start calling her Skeletor.'_

"No. Not anymore."

"Meg...you gotta let it go. Or tell me what happened. As much shit as we give each other, you know I love you like a sister. You're killing yourself." _'Half the truth, Orton. You lie to yourself, just like she does.'_

"I _have_ let it go." Frustrated, Meg moved to stand, but Randy blocked her rise from the edge of the bed.

_'Okay. There's a crack. An 'it' happened. Now for what and when.' _"Well..._it_ hasn't let you go. Meg, none of this shit you're doing is you. You aren't a smoker, you drink but not like that, you never sneak around with your phone – fuck, you never even really used your phone unless you were throwing it at Dave or some shit. What happened?"

"Nothing. And before you ask, nobody. And never. I don't have any answers for you."

"Oh come on, Meg!" Randy roared and vaulted up from his crouch, looming over her. Meg's eyes were empty. He expected her to blink, flinch, stand up and shove him, anything to indicate she was still in there somewhere. She didn't move, just continued staring through him.

"How hard are you going to hit me, Randy? Enough so I forget what happened? Or so I can leave? Please? I won't move. I won't even say you did it. I promise." _'Look what those words mean, Meg. Look what they can do.'_

"Jesus...Meg...I'm sorry. Here...c'mere." Randy leaned down to wrap his arms around her. _'Whatever happened, I'm going to fucking kill whoever did this to her. She's gone. She's completely gone.'_

Meg reached up instinctively to touch his arms, and Randy startled. "Jesus, Meg, what _else_ is wrong with you? You're always cold, but your hands are fucking free...zing..." His mind flew back to those slurred, drunken words Joe managed to let slip. Randy braced for an argument, grasped her wrists, tilted Meg away from him and asked the question he hoped would open the floodgates.

"Who picked the movie that night, Meg? You or Joe?" He had all the time in the world to wait for her look of pure hatred to pass and her voice to take over.

* * *

Joe would be having his own argument that night. He felt as though he was racing towards a cliff, not knowing if anything would pull him back or if he even cared.

Rather than risk being seen at the hotel bar, he ordered a bottle of bourbon from room service. _'Something caramel, because...her.'_ Up came a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle whatever-or-another, expensive, and Joe stopped caring after the second drink. The ugly argument with his fiance had also contributed to his call to room service; he told her to go out and _stay out_, and while Joe didn't want to acknowledge what that meant, he was glad to finally have some quiet in the room. The second drink turned into several, which turned into not being able to understand how much was or wasn't left in the bottle, and he knew he had to stop. Staggering to the bed, Joe threw his clothing on the floor – he would have taken his skin off if he could – the room was unbearably heavy. He prayed for sleep, which came slowly, and dragged a dream along with it.

* * *

_"Come here, Joe. You need this." He could hear Meg, but not see her._

_"Come where? Where are you?" He spun, but every direction afforded him facefulls of flying rose petals and snow. The ground was so thick with the mixture he could barely walk._

_"Joe...I promised I would take care of you." He felt two cold hands slide over his shoulders; Meg came into soft focus in front of him seconds later. "If you want me to leave, I can go. You told me everything is fine." He could see everything and nothing at once – Meg's body was a series of blurred, hazy lines. This place didn't make sense; fragments came together out of memory. He felt her fingers trace circles through his hair, draw lines across his cheekbones, every touch searingly, impossibly cold._

_"Don't go, Meg. I don't want you to go." Catching her hands in his, Joe pulled her fingertips to his lips, briefly nipping them before asking, "Do you remember this? I remember you tasted like roses." As if reading his mind, Meg's hands slipped around the back of his neck as Joe leaned down into a kiss every bit as delicate, though no less hesitant, as their first._

_Meg allowed him a moment of tentative exploration before she pulled Joe firmly down against her lips, smiling against him as he responded with a possessive growl. Her tongue felt like velvet against his, and she tasted like roses, exactly as he remembered. "And you taste like caramel, Joe," Meg giggled as she broke away, "How did that happen?" He couldn't help his smile, and let the slightest of moans slip as she traced an ice chip down his throat. "Joe, when did any of this happen? Tell me you want me to take care of you." He wanted to see her, to remember every outline, but his mind wouldn't yield any specific image._

_He tilted her chin up so her eyes met his. "Only you." He couldn't remember ever wanting anything more. One hand firmly around the back of her neck, the other rubbing small, tender circles into her lower back, her skin so cold it almost burned, Joe began kissing and nipping his way across her collarbones, up her neckline, back to her lips, feeling her press against him – gently at first, and then feeling her press turn into a pull as she guided his head and hands across her. "If I need this, Meg, what do you need?" She smiled again, pushing him back into the rose-snow, falling with him._

_"Just you." His hands teased up her stomach, threatening her breasts, but she caught them and pressed them lower. "All of you."_

_It was the only invitation he needed. If this was their only time, strange as it was, then he was going to claim it. His turn to push her backwards; he was on top of her in their perfumed snow in seconds, desperate for more. One hand brushed her hair from her face, the other slid down her side, across her thighs, fingers teasing, and then - "I'm not all ice, Joe." - in her, in her, their legs tangling, a surreal, searing heat rising in him as he felt her start to arch her back and then push away, kissing him, gently, deeply, reassuring. "Together. Not just me, us." One last smile, and somehow she moved and he was in her, not teasing or touching but buried, instantly complete, though he thought he might break apart. Meg's hands tangled gently in his hair, urging him to set a rhythm. Joe brought her with him, slowly at first, then faster, hearing every whisper for more._

* * *

Joe, naked, sweating, moving tangled through the hotel bedsheet, never heard his fiancee come back to their room from the hotel bar. Seeing him ready, presumably for her, she slithered to the bed, placed a hand tightly around the base of his throat, and was on top of him in seconds, riding him, not having the slightest idea that he was lost in a dream rather than in her. Had she known the shift he'd take in his mind, she might never have gotten into bed with him.

* * *

_In the snow and petals,_ _Joe suddenly had a hand around Meg's throat, squeezing, not able to stop himself, abandoning the rhythm they had set and driving violently into her while she clawed at his arm, wild-eyed, confused, afraid, begging him no, stop._

Instead, his fiancee redoubled her efforts at getting a reaction: pulling Joe's hair, biting his shoulder, trying to wake him and force him to look at her. Angry when he didn't come out of his bourbon-fueled stupor fast enough, she pulled back and slapped him as hard as she could manage, fed by her own attempts at problem-solving via alcohol.

* * *

_Joe found his other hand forcing Meg's head back by her hair, hard, Meg flailing at him, trying to pry him from her throat while her neck craned backwards, a series of dry, gasping sounds suddenly all that was left in her. Joe, slamming into her, could she she was terrified and trying to get away from him. The pain was written in the contortions of her body until, miraculously, he let go of her, just long enough to watch his arm pull back, high, too far above his head, and slam downward, a sickening sound between a slap and a punch, and Meg stilled underneath him. He still couldn't stop, next leaning down, dragging his teeth to the slope where her neck became shoulder, tearing off her necklace, ready to bite down, and having no idea why._

* * *

Then he was awake, terrified, nauseated, pushing his fiancee back off of him and onto the bed, both their eyes wide. His fiancee had managed to claw the sheet away from him and cover herself.

"What the fuck? The fuck, Joe? It's me! You finish what you started and-"

Joe was still entirely too drunk for what he was feeling, for what he hadn't felt at all, and then was screaming at her to get out of the room, get rid of the ring, get out of the house, just get away from him, take whatever she wanted, it was all done, they were over, he was done. The door slammed again, there was quiet, then there was nothing.


	10. My Brother's Keeper

Again, so much love to those who have read, returned, favorited, messaged me, and been so supportive! I welcome all reviews and messages.

While waiting on me to update (my schedule is crazy), PLEASE - read, review, and enjoy mxjoyride, WillowEdmond, AWrestlingGod, daggerella, and giadysik.

* * *

The entirety of catering dropped into edgy silence the next morning as Joe stalked through, phone pressed to his ear. The sole audible part of the conversation consisted of, "You're the lawyer! YOU figure it out!"

Randy took that as a cue to perform a mental ten-count and then trail after Joe in the hopes of keeping the damage to a minimum._ 'For the guy who's supposed to be the calm one, you have one hell of a temper. Control issues, man.'_

Finding Joe turned out to be an easier endeavor than Randy expected. He only had to follow the continuing echo of pounding and banging to a small office in a distant part of the door, Randy simply leaned against its frame, folded his arms, and watched Joe heave punch after punch into the walls and table.

"You might want to stop hitting shit, since I know you don't want to go to triage." Tone cool and facial expression bored, Randy tried to start the conversation somewhere near 'disinterested' and see what happened as he went.

"What...the fuck...is that...supposed to mean?" Joe was panting, dust from broken plaster thick in the air.

"Well, Meg works in triage, and you avoid her like she's got a disease. Unless you really want to see Dave, or something. Maybe his flavor of Tylenol is more your style, y'know?"

Joe was looming in front of Randy in a flash, fists clenched, chest braced, shoulders locked broadly forward. "_What_ does _that_ mean?"

"Gotcha." Randy hadn't moved an inch, other than to crinkle a smirk across his face. _'And why I'm helping you with this, I don't know. It's not helping me any.'_

_'Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck...I had to say something, didn't I? Fuck!'_ Time felt like it slowed down; Joe held still for what felt like hours before his resolve cracked. Still trying to catch his breath, he reached for a chair, turned it backwards in front of him, and sat heavily, waiting for Randy to make his point.

"So," Randy continued, "Unless you jacked up your hand and you really do have to go to triage, you've got time to talk. Your workout's done, there's no promos to shoot for another 45 minutes, and costuming isn't here yet. Do you want to tell me what's really going on?"

"The engagement's off."

"Well, no shit." Randy's deadpan was terrifying in its complete flatness, though the smirk never left.

"Was it that obvious?"

The smirk broadened to a smile. "Can I be a douche for a second?"

"Could I stop you if I wanted to?"

"I'm glad the bitch is gone. Get yourself a really expensive lawyer. Then, get yourself back together. I hear they make rebound fucks for that."

Joe felt his heart catch, trip, stop._ 'I can't. She's...I…'_

That was all it took. Staring up at the ceiling, Joe recounted the whole thing, jumbled as it was, from the ice chips to whispering to her, holding her on the floor, falling on her in bed, pulling her down into that glittering kiss, trying to explain how she tasted like roses, caramel, her fingers on his lips, even the tiny medallion on her necklace.

"That's Saint Julian," Randy cut in, "Maybe you could have, I dunno, asked her about it?" Randy rolled his eyes.

Joe sighed quietly, then explained how she froze up after he talked about his fiancee the night of his injury, then that he let her hands linger on his face before she left that morning. All of it sweetness and confusion that he couldn't get out of his head.

"Joe, you really don't hear yourself? I mean, I know what you did, but you don't...really? I mean, okay, I knocked your ass out-"

"_No_, you didn't." Immediately defensive, Joe felt himself bristle but had no idea why it was important to make the point Randy hadn't gotten one over on him.

"Like I was saying, you got fucked up that night. But you looked at Meg, told her you knew _exactly_ who she was and _exactly_ what you were doing. You kissed her, _then_ you told her it was no big deal because hey, everything with you and your stupid bitch was A-Fucking-Okay and she shouldn't worry about it. You really expected her _not_ to worry about you?"

"When did you get so fucking emotional?" The edge in Joe's voice was dangerous.

"Because what you did _killed_ her." Randy, equally steely, fired back almost immediately, but felt something in him demand that he hold back, not tip his emotional hand to Joe any more than he already had. "Jackson is a worthless, useless shitheel to her, and Meg's always had a soft spot for you. Do you _really_ think she takes the time to argue with anyone else about stupid shit like kneepads? Even Dave gave her shit about how she was always a hardass to everyone _except_ you. You scared the absolute fuck out of her that night, crawled under her skin, _made_ her give a fuck about you and then basically said, 'Nah, trick, my boo is just out for the night, but thanks anyway!'"

Joe glared. "You can shut the fuck up now."

"No, _you_ can shut the fuck up now. You need to leave Meg alone, period. She doesn't know you and your she-beast are over with; don't expect me to be the one to tell her. If it was up to me, I'd tell her to kick you in the nuts." _'I'd tell her a lot of things, none of them involving you.'_

"So, what, you're her overprotective big brother?"

"Don't put yourself in the position to find out, asshole. Leave. Her. Alone." Randy rolled off the doorframe and back out into the hallway. Joe stood, tilting the chair from one leg to another, finally throwing it across the room and sending up a howl of frustration.

* * *

Meg trudged through catering about 20 minutes later, snagging a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper from a cooler and ignoring everything else on the tables, much to Dave's dismay.

"You need to eat. I'm bringing you a plate for triage."Dave grabbed Meg by the arm, barely managing to hide a snarl of revulsion at how far around her arm his hand wrapped.

"No. Unless it's for the people who end up in triage, in which case I need dry crackers and ginger soda." Meg looked bored and distant.

"You're a stubborn thing when you want to be."

"Whatever." Meg pulled out her script and schedule and wandered off in the general direction of triage, looking at the floor, as she went. She brushed past Randy after two or three hallways, not realizing he'd been looking for her all along, and she ignored him as she moved. He had to change direction and jog a bit to catch back up to her; he'd thought she'd stop once they crossed paths.

"Hold up a sec, Meg." Randy touched her arm, hoping to slow her down.

"I don't really-," she mumbled, not looking up.

"Look at me. Make the time." Randy's voice was icy, and Meg knew she didn't have a choice.

Meg forced herself to lift her eyes from the ground. "Okay," she sighed, "What-?"

"C'mere. We should talk for a second. I have a favor to ask you."

"Randy, really, I-"

"It's simple. All I want you to do is hold on to my room key." Randy rummaged through the pockets of his track pants, then the side pockets of his gym bag, making a much bigger show than was necessary of finding the key he already knew was in his wallet.

"Uh, I'm not staying with-"

"Well, you are now. I keep losing my keys, anyway, and I'm fucking tired of paying for new ones." Producing his wallet, Randy exaggerated an 'a-ha' moment and passed his keycard to Meg, who held it like it was on fire.

Meg wrinkled her nose. "Can I finish one fucking sentence?"

"I'm sorry. Go ahead." He smiled, waving his hands in front of her generously, to indicate the floor was hers. _'I won this one, so whatever else you wanna argue about, go ahead.'_

"I'm not staying with you. And you've never lost a room key in the entire time I've known you. What is this really about?"

"Remember how you never told me who ordered the movie, but I trusted you and I let it go?"

Meg's face became instantly unreadable. "I remember."

"Okay. This is one of those things. I trusted you then. I just need you to trust me now. I'm not doing this to get you into bed and I'm not doing this because Dave is telling me to do it. I just need you to trust me and hold on to my room key. You don't have to stay with me. Just hold on to it. Use it if you need it."

"What am I hiding from?" The skepticism in Meg's voice was nearly dripping.

"Nothing, kiddo. Just use it if you need it." Randy squeezed her arm - _'She's still so goddamn bony. If she does show up, I'm force-feeding her a pizza. Or three.'_ \- and walked back to the locker area.

* * *

Meg shrugged and pocketed the key. She told Dave about it once she was in triage, but he was believable when he said he had no idea why Randy would offer it to her. _'Strange. Just strange, all the way around. I wonder if it's just for this show, or if this is the new normal.'_ Wandering back out to the triage monitors, she took a seat and tried to melt into the chair until the end of the show.

Dave, however, lumbered off to find Randy as fast as his middle-aged legs would carry him, knowing something wasn't quite right. Rounding a corner near gorilla, he spotted Randy bouncing through a pre-match warmup while an intern held a clipboard up in front of him.

"What serial killer is on the loose that anorexic, sleep-deprived, LPN-interns are suddenly at a high murder risk?" Dave's voice was half-serious and half-concerned, a combination odd for him. To get Dave to truly worry about anything was like getting blood from a stone.

Randy snorted and waved the intern away. "Dude. Try more like an angry, desperate, heartbroken Samoan man."

"Oh, shit. That's an actual problem." Dave rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering why Meg always seemed to be where Joe was, literally or metaphorically. "What happened?"

"On the upside, he finally got rid of the dead weight and dumped that bitch. On the downside, it apparently took nearly an entire bottle of bourbon, a dream where he nearly killed Meg, and months of obsessive-compulsive...compulsion...to do it. Meg really got under his skin. And you know he's been under hers from the get-go." _'And she's been under mine, but that's a whole fucking other mess.'_

"Yeah, no kidding. And what do you want her to do with your room key, exactly?"

Randy sighed. "Honestly? I don't know. I told Joe to stay away from her. He's a train wreck right now. I don't want him to do anything impulsive. You and Meg room together, but if he shows up at your hotel, she needs a place to go so he doesn't..." he trailed off, unsure where to go with his thoughts.

"You don't think he would hurt her?" Dave's eyebrows knit together at the notion.

Randy furrowed his brow. "No! No. Nothing like that. But they don't need to be each others' drinking buddies, put it that way." Dave chuckled at the notion. "Joe needs time, and he doesn't realize it. It hasn't even occurred to him that Meg is still seeing Jackson. So I was thinking, if you needed somewhere to put Meg, someone who might have an easy time telling Joe to go fuck off, and someone to be able to get Meg to stay put…"

"...Then you might be that guy?" Dave finished.

"Exactly." Randy was smug in his confidence.

"Well, great. But how am I supposed to get her there? We stay at Chateau de Motel Six, remember?"

"I can fake whatever you need me to fake. You guys are obligated to show up to our hotel once I call. I'm obligated to be a pain in the ass and keep her there."

"Randy...it's not that easy." His eyes had widened; Randy suddenly sounded like he'd forgotten all about Meg's stubborn streak.

"Whatever, Dave. It will be. And she's going to get my room card, every show, until things settle down for her. Maybe she'll even show up out of boredom. It'll be good for her to be social. I might even get her to, y'know, have an actual meal. Talk about Jackson. Sort her shit out." _'Hers, mine, whatever.'_

Randy shook out his shoulders one last time, clapped the older man on the arm, and trotted off toward gorilla. Dave just shook his head. "Optimism of youth," he muttered under his breath, and slowly walked back to triage. Jackson was no low hurdle, and neither were the upcoming contractual issues, but there was still time. Not much, where the contract was concerned, but Randy knew more about managerial politics than did Dave. As for Jackson, well – Dave just shook his head.


	11. Scratch an Itch

Days later, despite room key after room key from Randy, Meg paused one last time to look at her face in the mirror next to the sink. She didn't look like herself; she wasn't sure if she liked that or not. The dress and shoes were borrowed after the show from her friend in the costuming department, along with assurances the black wasn't too severe. Meg wasn't sure; she imagined Jackson would make comments about her being too pale, or that her hair was the wrong kind of dark red, and start asking her to dye it blonde. The high heels were a complete mystery to her; the majority of her days were spent in work shoes, sneakers, or flip flops._ 'Keep pacing. It's just practice balancing. You'll get it.'_ Her clutch was annoyingly small; the glitter on it flaked off and stuck to her palms._ 'At least it holds your phone and cards. Small favors.'_

Meg's friend in costuming had forcibly dragged her to hair and makeup, which had then led to Meg trying desperately not to touch anything above her neck – she was afraid to smear something she couldn't repair or knock any bobby pins out of place. _'How do women wear this shit every day? This is horrible. And itchy. I hope he appreciates this, because this is not me. Not me at all.'_

Pulling in a last, deep breath, Meg stepped out into the largely quiet hallway, smoothing the front of her dress. The few techs and interns around shot her low whistles and appreciative glances, and Meg felt her face flush. _'Okay. Time to go see if Jackson figured out his backstage pass or not.'_

She made it past catering and was nearly to the green room before she heard Dave in her ear, his voice thick with concern.

"What are you doing? I mean, where are you – I mean, you look great, but-" He caught her arms in his hands and started to pull her back toward catering.

"Dave, let go." Meg rubbed her arms where Dave had grabbed her. Dave released her, but reluctantly.

"You didn't answer me. What is all this?" He gestured at her outfit, causing Meg to pull back from him even further.

"This," Jackson spoke from behind her, "Is what she's wearing to dinner with me. And what she's wearing to go dancing with me. And what she's wearing to the hotel with me." With that, he dropped his arm over her shoulders and dragged her roughly against her. "Did you need anything else, Dave? Or can I take _my girlfriend_ out now?"

"Meg, this is what all this nonsense is for?" Dave completely ignored Jackson, locking his eyes on Meg's now-slumped frame as she shrunk into Jackson's side.

"Yeah...yeah, Dave, I'm going out…"

"You know what? When all this blows up in your face, Meg, don't call. I love you, but I can't bail you out of this one. You know you shouldn't be doing this. You just...shouldn't."

Meg looked up, crestfallen, then sighed._ 'Well. I guess that door's closing. Closed. Whichever.'_

Dave and Jackson stared each other down, Meg caught in the middle, willing them both to stop the pointless show of masculinity and go back to their respective corners. She never saw Randy turn from his seat in catering to watch the near-argument unfold. Meg looked miserably trapped against Jackson's side. Dave finally threw his hands in the air and walked away. Randy quirked an eyebrow and made a mental note to talk to Dave. He fired a quick text to Joe, finished his bottle of water, and headed toward the parking deck, hoping he could still catch the medic before he boarded the late shuttle to the hotels. Jackson and Meg were long gone, Randy watching her struggle the whole way to keep up on her tottery high heels.

* * *

Having snagged a cab, Meg and Jackson settled in for a quick ride to the main boulevard.

"You cleaned up really well, babe," Jackson murmured into her neck, oblivious to the driver who was watching them with far too much enjoyment in his eyes, "Sometimes I think you're always gonna look like you did when I found you, and then you go ahead and surprise me."

"Wow, Jackson. That's, uh...that's really sweet of you." _'You forget, you were in the same bar. Even business-district guys cross the tracks.'_ Meg couldn't help the stab of annoyance, but pushed it down. _'Knock it off, Meg. So he was slumming it that night. So what? He stuck with you, be grateful instead of being a bitch.'_

Forcing a smile she hoped didn't look half as fake as it felt, Meg turned to nuzzle Jackson's face out of her neck before he left marks. "So...what's the plan tonight, babe?"

"Remember how you complained you never went to expensive restaurants, swanky clubs, or posh hotels?"

_'Think, Meg...think...'_ Her brain turned up nothing on that level of complaint, so she blanked her eyes and applied a Barbie-doll expression. "Of course, hon. It was so disappointing."_ 'What the hell are you talking about?'_

"Well, you're going to be so glad I'm here. Tonight is all about expensive, swanky, and posh."

Suddenly, it clicked. That phone call the night Joe...well, that night. Their argument. She hadn't complained about company travel in Europe; it was Jackson's accusation. _'Well, whatever. He wants to parade me around, let's see what happens. These heels are going to be the death of me.' _"Oh, sweetheart," Meg purred, a little too sweetly even for her, "You are just _too_ good for me."_ 'Stop provoking him, Meg. You're being snotty.'_

"I know, babe. I know."

Meg had to lean into a kiss in order to have an excuse to shut her eyes; otherwise she would have rolled them at him and she knew better than to do that. She could tell Jackson had a pre-dinner drink or two; their arguments were always worse after that. Tonight was for her to be on her best behavior, enjoy herself, and see if the two acts weren't mutually exclusive. _'I can act right and still love him. And he wouldn't do all this if he didn't love me.'_

* * *

The cab stopped in front of a very dimly-lit restaurant, and Jackson literally dragged Meg from the cab, nearly dumping her on her knees. "Come on, Meg. You look like a mess. Don't be embarrassing." Jackson planted one hand on his hip, a perturbed look on his face. "Get inside. If we miss our table because of your bullshit...well, I'm not going to be happy."

Meg slunk past him, head down. _'Get it together, Meg. You're the one who asked him to come see you. You sent him the pass. You're the one who asked to make it work. Now make it work.'_


	12. The Return of the Prodigal Son

I have to thank all of my wonderful readers, reviewers, followers, favorite-ers, and everyone who's stopped by. I appreciate the love and motivation! Any questions, comments, concerns, "I don't get it's" - feel free to PM me. I do respond :)

* * *

As much as the silence was welcome for the first few days, it became oppressive as it stretched on. Joe didn't miss his ex's demands for sex, money, or 'time with the girls' - which, he had come to learn, translated into 'time with whatever men at the bar were offering invitations to their hotel rooms.' He did, however, miss having company that extended beyond his lawyer. Generally, the roster was polite but distant. Dave talked to Joe only as much as was necessary to keep him functional in the ring, and never mentioned Meg. His one ally, Randy, had shut him out completely. And worst, Meg. Still floating through his periphery, roses and caramel, skin and bones, sleep and shadows, and completely unavailable to him.

Once again, something had to give. And once again, that thing would be Joe. This time, it would be in much less dramatic fashion. He read Randy's text immediately after their taping - _'She's out with Jackson. I wanted you to hear it from me, not walk into it.'_ In response, he ordered a bottle of Clase Azul Anejo for Randy and yet another bottle of the Van Winkle for himself. _'Because you enjoy torture? Caramel? Joe, you're an idiot.'_ A few hours later, he texted Randy, hoping for the best.

_'At the risk of sounding like a little bitch, can we talk?'_

'_About?'_ Randy was terse, even though text.

_'Deep emotional issues. Unburdening of the soul. Therapy.'_

_'You better be drunk.'_

_'Not yet, but I'm bringing you tequila.'_ Joe crossed his fingers after sending that message; hopefully Randy would be amenable to the sentiment, even in liquid form.

_'Apology accepted. Room 1247.'_

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Joe padded toward Randy's room, sweatpants billowing, bottles in hand, hoping Randy wasn't going to be gauche enough to ask for ice. _'Honestly, I'm in the mood that I hope he doesn't even bother with the plastic cups in the bathroom. I just want to drink. And talk. If I can't talk to her, I can talk about her. Or anything. Just talk.'_

He almost made it to a knock on the door, but Randy swung it open and snagged the bottle of Clase as it came up to eye level.

"Splurge. You must be feeling guilty." He cradled the glazed clay cask lovingly.

"Lonely." Joe walked in, shutting the door behind him.

"If this is a come-on, you're in the wrong suite."

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Randy. Honestly, I didn't like how we left shit. I know you're her friend; I _didn't_ know you were that close. I feel like I owe you something for..." Joe paused, setting his bottle down on the edge of the nearest dresser and sighing heavily. "I owe you for putting up with me."

It was Randy's turn to sigh. "Look...Meg and I always give each other a ton of shit. I know how it looks."

Joe offered a low, throaty chuckle. "It _looks_ like it's about three seconds away from a war."

Randy nodded. "But...she's always taken really good care of me." He walked to the sliding glass door, opened it, and motioned Joe to follow him out into the warm air of the balcony, settling into a low chair. _'Why am I telling you this, Joe? To talk you out of it, or me into it?' _"She started work with Dave right when my divorce was finalized; I was an asshole to everyone and she took it in stride. One of the few people who didn't snap at me when I snapped at them." Randy opened the tequila, shrugged at the bottle, and drank straight. "Meg was...patient. Never came on to me, never asked anything of me, always listened, cleaned up after me, put me back together, all of it. Even Dave got sick of my bullshit after a while, but Meg just took it all on. Don't get me wrong, she was always honest with me when I fucked up." Randy took a second, longer drink, and laughed, "Sometimes, too honest. But I needed it. So...I go a little overboard when I see her hurting."

Joe opened the Van Winkle before moving to the balcony and stood, looking down at the amber liquid, thinking, breathing in what he remembered of Meg's scent. "And I hurt her."

"You did. And this is really good tequila. I almost don't want to punch you anymore."

"You're welcome."

Randy rolled his eyes. "So what was in your head, anyway? If you weren't lying or confused and you really knew what you were doing...then what the fuck were you doing?"

Joe's face registered nothing for a few seconds, and then the smallest of smiles crossed his lips before he sat. "I think you really did fuck me up that night." Randy snapped his head toward Joe, a warning glare on his face, and Joe winced. "Not as an excuse! Not like that! What I mean is," Joe paused for a drink of his own, "I think I knew for a while the engagement was…"

"Fucked?"

"Yeah. That." Joe chuckled dryly. "But having Meg there, and knowing she wanted to be there, something either stopped making sense or started making sense. I don't know. She kept promising to stay and take care of me, and my fiancee never once said that. Not once that night. I know I remember that much."

"But you _didn't_ have to-"

Joe held up his hand, unsurprised at how harsh Randy sounded. "You're right, and I shouldn't have. When you said she was worried about me..." Joe paused. "I sound like a dumbass. That night...she cared. Some part of me knew what she meant."

"Fair." Randy drank, again. "Meg doesn't know how to..." He sighed. "I'm going to sigh a lot tonight, I think. Meg is the sweetest person once you know her. She would lay down in traffic for someone she loves, and it kills her to hurt people. She's also guarded as fuck. Meg...presents herself very carefully, depending on who she's dealing with."

Joe puzzled over Randy's words, drank, puzzled, and drank again. He waited for Randy to continue, not wanting to pry, but Randy simply stared off into the humid distance. _'Apparently, if I want to know, I have to ask. Carefully.'_

"Okay...I'll bite. What are you _not_ saying?"

"Meg...man, I dunno. Anything you get from her is genuine. She tells you who she is if you just ask. There's no 'game' to Meg. When I say she's confusing, I mean...she doesn't exactly encourage you to ask. You have to earn her trust. She looks at a lot of the people she's around now and feels like she doesn't belong here."

"So it's a shitty past compared to…"

Randy waved his hands at nothing and everything. "Basically. Yeah. I mean, nothing to make a movie about, but she grew up rough and Dave helped pull her through. It's stuff she would have to tell you – just out of respect for her, you know how that is. Jackson doesn't help, either."

Joe made a non-committal noise._ 'Yeah. Him. What's he like, I wonder.'_

"But," Randy continued, "_You_ wouldn't know anything about sticking with a person who's completely wrong for you, would you?"

"Asshole." Joe wasn't amused; he couldn't tell if the comment was meant to cut at him or not.

"I have to be good at something." Randy, still smug, knew he'd won that round.

"What's Jackson like?"

"He's like a case of herpes. Just doesn't go away." Joe almost choked on his drink. "No, really. This kind of shit I don't feel bad telling you. He met Meg at a bar when she was in school for her LPN. He was in business school – something to do with accounting or taxes, I forget which. They were opposite ends of the spectrum, but I guess they hit it off and he was decent to her at first. Once she got her license and started making her own money, he changed. Dave got her in here just to help her find some space, but Jackson never really let go. Meg's never really let go, either. They've had breaks, but not a break up." Randy drank bitterly and long. "Any more details than that and you'd have to ask her."

"I have permission to talk to her?" Joe sounded legitimately shocked.

"If you make her cry, I'm going to kick you in the nuts."

"I bought you tequila." Joe hoped he could chance a swipe at playful commentary; Randy was still edgy with him, but he craved a lighter mood.

"I'll only kick you once." The serious tone that Randy took told Joe it was more than an idle threat.

The ensuing silence was comfortable, and Joe finally felt as though he could exhale – if only a little. _'Finally, I can at least say hello to her. I can do that much. I don't know how to do anything else, but...I can try.'_ His hands worried at the neck of the bottle of bourbon. "You know I'm sorry, right? I really...I didn't mean to..." Joe trailed off.

"I know, man. I know. There were a lot of things going on. But...you want to talk to her. And?"

"And?" Joe was utterly confused.

"See, that's what I'm afraid of." Randy's shoulders sagged.

"I don't follow."

"What is talking going to turn into? Meg can't handle...anything else...right now. And you can't honestly say you're ready for anything else right now, either. Don't argue that point."

"Randy, I don't know. I want to see if I can even walk up to her and say hello. I can promise you I'll let her take the lead on things."

"Okay. Okay, I can live with that. If her lead turns into 'go away,' then that's that, right?"

Joe's heart wrenched. He was silent; hadn't considered she might _really_ tell him to leave her alone.

"Joe...right? Then that's that?" Randy pressed the question a second time, quietly.

"Right. No, uh, right. Sorry. Yeah, then that's that. If it's 'go away,' then that's that. Done." Joe drank, and drank hard. Randy knew it wouldn't be that easy; Joe was now contemplating a completely new and as-yet untapped vein of misery.

"Hey, Joe?" Randy kicked Joe in the shin with a bit more force than he needed. "She's not going to tell you to go away. And ask her about Saint Julian."


	13. Espejitos

**Trigger warning. I should be nicer to my characters. Don't worry, she's a tough cookie.**

* * *

The restaurant Jackson picked was, of course, spectacular. It would have been better to order for herself, but Jackson saw to it that she had the "Spoon Menu" and that her wine was pre-selected and constantly topped off. _'I'm a big girl, Jackson. I can order my own food. Plus, I'd like a real meal, not a never-ending snack plate.'_

The meal was delicious, but the ratio of substance-to-alcohol was off, and Meg could feel herself tilting around on her heels once they left the coat check._ 'Dear Cosmic Being, I will never touch SoCo again, just please deliver me unto sobriety. That was way too much wine. Jackson knows I can't drink like that.'_ Meg's mind woozed between her ears.

"Aww, look at that. My girl's getting ready to put on a show for me."

* * *

Jackson had gone from appreciative to leering as he mistook her doddering balance and decreased sobriety for an increased interest in their next stop at the club. He began dragging her more than guiding her down the boulevard toward the massive line of people. A quick palm-press of some cash to the bouncer, and suddenly Meg felt herself squeezed against Jackson, through a door, and then physically pounded by bass from a sound system clearly set to 'pulverize.'

"Shots first, and then I want that show you promised me!" Jackson nearly had to scream to be heard, and held her by the hair to keep her close enough to be heard.

_'So much for the updo. Jesus Christ, let go.' _Meg winced, but didn't move. "Jackson, babe, I need some water or something. If I drink more it's not-"

"I said shots. Now. We have VIP seating. Move it." He shoved her forward, hair as a handle, and she staggered, barely keeping upright.

_'I bet that was cute. This is going to be spectacular. I can't keep drinking.' __Meg did the best she could to stay vertical and keep moving toward whatever table Jackson was trying to steer her toward._

Once they were seated, Jackson snapped his fingers at a shot girl, and promptly cleared six shots from her tray to their table. He gripped Meg's wrists and yanked her forward into him. "Drink. Now. And then I want that show you promised me."

"Baby, please, I'm not-" He banged a shotglass into her teeth, tipping it, and Meg reflexively swallowed, trying not to drown in whatever syrupy, cinnamon and gin concoction was in the glass. Meg felt her eyes water and fought with her stomach. _'Whatever bartender came up with that bullshit needs to be shot. That's disgusting.'_ The pounding noise was unbearable, and after the first shot, Jackson had the second one against her mouth before she could even breathe.

"Again. Then get in front of the table." Meg squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed again, waiting for Jackson to relax his grip on her wrists. "Good girl." He didn't let go.

"Jackson...what is this? What are you doing?" Meg's throat was burning, and her mascara had pooled under her eyes as she leaned in to yell.

"You've been gone for _months_, Meg. You owe this to me. And now I'm going to get it. And while you're at it, here's number three." He mashed another shot glass to her lips. Meg briefly considered turning her head, but he held her in place. Shakily, she opened her mouth and accepted. "Aren't I being a gentleman? Isn't that what you want?" Meg watched as Jackson crushed both of her wrists into one of his hands, slammed a shot of his own, and pulled her into a sloppy kiss that banged their teeth together.

_'Oh? Oh, so that's what this is. He's...angry? Jealous? This is a tantrum? Okay, Meg. Calm down. Just ride it out. Make him happy now, and he'll be asleep by the time you hit the bed at the hotel. Just ride it out.'_ The floor was moving too much to accommodate the shoes she was wearing, but she had to try. Meg extricated her wrists from Jackson's hand, stumbled around to the front of the table, and tried to shimmy as best she could while still keeping at least one hand touching the flat surface for balance.

"Meg, get off the table and dance for me. Or can't you even do that right?" Jackson's words stung.

Meg tried to push into something more upright. _'How many years has it been since I've done this? I'm not in college.' _She felt as though she was going to fall down, and her legs swayed precipitously underneath her. Taking a few deep breaths, Meg lunged for the edge of the table. "Jackson, I can't." She hung her head, knowing her words were slurring together. "Can't we just talk? Be together and talk? I can't drink anymore."

"Oh, you want to be together?" Jackson's smile was evil. "I know just the place." He lifted her upright and rushed her towards the door. "You and I are going back to the hotel. Now."

"Wha...which hotel, baby? We just got here!" Meg had a hard time keeping up with him; she was aware of her ankles rolling and banging underneath her, but couldn't feel any pain from it._ 'Well, not yet.'_

"Only the best, remember? Or are you that stupid? Do you remember what I like in bed, or am I going to have to show you again?"

"Baby, I'm sorry..." Meg felt her eyes brimming and wiped at them, dragging more mascara down her face. Her lipstick was a lost cause from the bruising her mouth took during the shots; she was vaguely aware of the metallic taste of blood on her bottom lip. Meg knew Jackson had ruined her hair. The pins and clips were stabbing at her, but without a mirror she had no idea what to move or adjust. Something in the back of Meg's mind told her,_ 'Just go to the hotel,'_ but she couldn't piece the reason together.

* * *

By the time Jackson pulled, dragged, and cajoled Meg through the long walk from the club to the towering luxury hotel at the end of the boulevard, she had gone from drunk over stifled tears to drunk under numbness. Jackson hauled her forward toward the doors, pausing long enough to tilt her head backward by the neck.

"See, look at the sign. Nothing but the best for you. So I better see the best in bed."

"Jackson, I just-" Meg swallowed down a retch as her eyes struggled to catch up to the rest of the world; Jackson had craned her neck back at an impossible angle.

"Get inside." Jackson's voice, entirely ice, gave Meg a fit of convulsive shivers.

He shoved her toward the doors, and as the gilded letters of the logo smeared through Meg's field of vision, it hit her – this was the corporate hotel. Her stomach and mind were still reeling from the ridiculous amount of alcohol she had consumed relative to the little food she had eaten all day, but now she had a chance._ 'Think, Meg. Try to think. Someone can find you, you can go to the corporate floor, you have a room key in your clutch – Meg, you have Randy's room key! He kept giving you his room key!'_ She felt a flash of adrenaline cut the alcohol in her system. _'Just get headed upstairs.'_

Jackson noticed the look on her face as he shoved her again and again toward the elevators, each time catching Meg on the stagger before she pitched to the ground.

"Something on your mind, Meg? How you're going to make it up to me? All this stupid shit with your -" and here, Jackson wagged his hands derisively in the air " -medic job?" He snorted. "You have a lot of making up to do. It's going to start on your knees. Depending on what I want, you might just stay on your knees. I don't need to look at you."

"Jackson, I swear, I wasn't trying to make you mad, it was just too much too fast…"

"Well, now I _am_ mad."

"I don't drink anything straight, Jackson." The words were out of Meg's mouth before she could think twice. _'Maybe drinking straight and being numb is going to pay off for me. For now.'_

The elevator dinged, and he shoved her inside. "Are you fucking _arguing_ with me?" Meg's head bounced off the back wall of the elevator, and before she could catch her breath, Jackson had her pinned, the elevator railing digging into her lower back. "Maybe all this arguing is turning you on. Maybe I should check." He started pawing at her under her dress, fingers tearing into her, crushing her face under the front of his shoulder so she couldn't scream for help.

"What's the matter, bitch, don't I turn you on anymore?" Jackson laughed and backed away from Meg, who couldn't pull her dress down fast enough. When she spoke, her voice was flat.

"I didn't see what floor you picked." _'Meg, no. No more. This has to stop. Everything hurts.'_

"Because I didn't, yet."

_'Okay...Meg, think. Corporate is floor twelve. Think. Think. Do it right.' _"Okay...okay...baby, I'm sorry. Let's make it a long elevator ride. Press a lot of buttons. I'll take care of you. I'll do it up right. All the way up."

"There's my girl. How many floors do you think you can last? We're on twenty-six." He pawed through her hair, ripping at bobby pins as he moved. His thumbs smeared across her lips, dragging deep red smears across her face. Every gesture was designed to mock her; every word calculated to cut deep.

"All the way up, Jackson. All the way up." _'This is wrong. Just close your eyes. Just listen for twelve.'_

* * *

Jackson forced her to her knees to the side of the panel of buttons, unzipped his pants, grabbed her by the hair for what felt like the hundredth time that night, and forced her face into his crotch. "Get it good and slick, because you know where it's going next."

By the time the elevator toned for the fifth floor, he had her dress up around her waist and was telling her how much she was loving the fucking she was getting, by the ninth floor, he was telling her to get back on her knees and clean him off._ 'Three more floors, Meg, and then you can puke on him out of spite.'_

"Twelfth. Floor. Going. Up." An androgynous voice cut through the elevator, the doors slid open, Jackson slid a nonchalant glance over his shoulder, and shrugged when nobody was waiting. Meg forced her eyes upward to make sure he was looking back at the doors, bit down, and ground her teeth down the length of him. Jackson, who had one hand in her hair, slammed her head back into the wall of the elevator for the second time that night, but equally as reflexively tried to grab himself from her mouth. Meg lunged between his legs, threw her clutch out as far as she could, and launched herself out into the elevator vestibule. Crawling forward, she struggled to get her feet underneath her. She made it as far as the vestibule's decorative mirror and Pembroke table, but no further. Jackson, having tucked himself into his pants, grabbed her by an ankle and dragged her back toward the elevator.

"Where do you think you're going, whore?" Jackson's face was contorted with rage.

Meg, dazed, couldn't find enough fear or air to scream. She managed to brace a leg against the wall framing the elevator and shove backwards, preventing him from getting her fully back inside. "Why don't you fuck off, Jackson? I'm done. We're over. I can't do this anymore. Why would you _do_ that to me?"

"Get the fuck back in here. We're going up to the room. I'm not done with you yet. I'm going to take _good_ care of you, I _promise_."

Something in Meg's head, something taut and tense, high-pitched, something that had been there since Joe had kissed her and then walked away, became a whine, then a scream, then snapped entirely. "Don't you _ever_ say _those_ words to me. You don't _ever_ promise me _anything._ You _don't_ know what that means." Meg kept her voice low. The last thing she needed was an audience. She just needed to get to Randy's room; she doubted even a drunk Jackson would be stupid enough to test that line. Meg kicked her free leg upward, clipping Jackson on the ear. He let go of her ankle and she scrambled backwards again, just past the mirror, and Jackson came fully out of the elevator after her.

Meg got her feet under her, her ankles screaming at her to stop, and turned to run from the vestibule into the hallway. She grabbed her clutch from the floor as she went, but Jackson snatched her from behind and spun, slamming her into the mirror. Vaguely aware of a crunching sound, Meg suddenly realized she had been in the air and was now sitting on the Pembroke table, Jackson between her legs for a second time that night.

"You'll come back to me, you stupid slut. When you need dick, or money, or both. I give it two weeks before I see you on your knees in front of me. Go fuck yourself. It won't be as good as what I gave you tonight." Jackson slammed his palm into her face, banging her head against the mirror one more time for emphasis before getting back on the elevator. "Sweet dreams, whore. I'm not done with you, yet." Meg, eyes blurring, watched the numbers on the elevator begin to ascend before testing her feet towards the floor. She heard glass come down from the mirror and land on the table behind her once she stood.

Shards of the mirror protruding from her scalp and shoulder blades like brittle butterfly wings, Meg shakily dug through the contents of her clutch, looking for Randy's room key. Staggering toward room 1247, trying and failing several times to slip the key into the thin slot of the lock before managing to set it properly and lean against the door, Meg's weight managed to lever it open it just enough to edge herself inside.

* * *

Randy, out on the balcony with Joe, was unaware Meg let herself in. It was the sound of the bathroom door squealing and then latching that brought him nosing back into the suite, Joe close behind. The shoes, clutch, and keycard on the floor in a trail to the bathroom, along with a scattering of small pieces of mirror-coated glass, put Randy on edge.

Joe elbowed Randy good-naturedly. "The fuck? What groupie did you give your room key to, dumbass?"

Randy's face was ghost white. "Kiddo, talk to me. Open the door, okay? Please?"

"Randy? Seriously, who's in the bathroom?" Joe had gone from bemused to perplexed.

Looking back over his shoulder, Randy's eyes locked on to Joe's, silently warning him to stop. "It's Meg," he whispered, "So please do not fuck this up."


	14. Superman's Dead

**Trigger Warning.**

* * *

Reaching for the bobby pins, Meg stopped sharply. She couldn't force her arms up that high; the glass in her shoulders prevented her from making the reach. Any movement on her part caused the shards to dig in, pop out, and slice, slice, slice – it was all a lost cause. Even trying to tilt her head down toward her hands was a monumental effort. Meg's vision blurred and her stomach heaved, but whether that was from the alcohol or the number of times Jackson hit her, she wasn't sure.

_'I don't know how to fix this. I can't call Dave. Maybe I can call Dave.'_ Meg groped across the bathroom counter for her clutch, but exhaled heavily when she realized she had dropped it on the floor outside the bathroom._ 'Not an option now.' _She braced herself against the counter, and felt her arms begin to quiver from the effort. _'Is Randy even here? He's just going to panic. I'm so fucked. I'm so, so fucked.' _Meg looked at herself in the mirror with no small degree of effort; the harsh overhead lighting was painful.

Behind her, Randy thumped on the door. She ignored it.

The edge of Jackson's palmprint was evident in a vertical line across the right half of her face, leaving small splits in her lips and as-yet light bruises over her eye and cheekbone. _'Knew that would be there. Fucking anemia.'_ What was once a carefully constructed upswept puffed-bun-hairdo-of-sorts was now tilted dramatically; whole locks and plaits fell off the sides. Eyeliner had pooled into mascara which had dried under her bloodshot and puffy eyes. Her lipstick and eyeshadow were smeared at odd angles. Meg reached up to touch the mirror; even though it was a shorter reach than the top of her bun, the pain in the backs of her shoulders caught her again and forced her to stop.

Fingerprint bruises were forming on the sides of her neck and around her arms. Carefully lifting the front of her dress, Meg could see the start of deep purple, knee-shaped imprints on her inner thighs; more bruises were beginning to show on her knees. _'Jackson. Ever the charmer.'_ Her stomach sent up a warning roll, and she dropped the hem down, letting her head fall forward. Tiny bits of mirror shook loose from her hair and skittered across the counter before tumbling to the floor. _'This will cut Randy. Meg, you did this to yourself. Deal with it. Get a towel down, get the dress off, get your hair down, dig this shit out of your shoulders, and get in the shower.'_

It seemed like sound, drunken logic at the time. Even as the room began to glow.

* * *

"Meg? Meg, doll, I know you're in there. Are you okay? Open the door. Or at least, tell me you're okay." Randy was trying to keep the tone of his voice in check, but it was becoming a struggle.

"Is this because she went out with Jackson?" Joe whispered. He knew Randy well enough to know that he was teetering on the brink of panic; if Meg had his room key, there had to be a reason.

Randy appeared not to hear him. He was pressed to the door, barely breathing, listening for anything that would tell him what Meg was doing. Joe shrugged and moved around Randy to the trail of items Meg left behind.

Meg carefully toed a large bath towel across the floor and forced her neck to crane enough to look over her shoulder, using the mirror to track the zipper. Taking a deep breath and biting down on a washcloth, she swung her elbow up behind her, reaching for the middle of the back of the dress. The metal tab wasn't within reach of her forearm._ 'Of course. Too easy. Now I have to force it.' _Willing her shoulder to compress an inch further, she gritted her teeth into the washcloth, snatched the tab of the zipper, and yanked down as hard as she could. The back of the dress peeled away, revealing a set of horizontal-stripe bruises across her middle and lower back. _'Elevator railing. Lovely.' _The air in the room felt too hot against her skin as Meg let the dress and washcloth fall away, standing there in her bra and panties, almost fascinated, watching the blood roll down her back, the light sparkling against each shard of embedded glass.

Joe picked up Meg's clutch and keycard, turned on the small lamp on the bedside table, and dumped the contents of the small bag across the bed. Everything was slightly...slick. Her phone, low on battery, was locked. _'Randy wouldn't hear me even if I asked him to guess the code.' _A credit card and her ID - _'No, not now. Later. And ask her, not him,'_ \- went into a pile. A small, cracked, empty phial of clear, rose scented oil explained the slickness; two small, square, foil-wrapped caramels, and a pot of neutral lip balm made another pile. He untangled her necklace with the small Saint Julian medallion before carefully piling it on the screen of her phone. The rose oil was everywhere now, and the scent surrounded him. Smiling wistfully, but with no further clue as to why she was in the bathroom and not answering the door, Joe walked back to where she left her clutch.

A piece of glass near the bathroom door grazed Joe's foot, scraping but not cutting the inside of his arch. He startled, then reached down to pick up the pieces of glass along with Meg's shoes. _'Why is my hand...sticky? What's on her shoes?' _Joe waked back to the bedside lamp, dropped the shoes on the floor, and rubbed his fingers together.

"Hey, Randy," Joe called quietly, "Uh, you need to come here."

Randy was still talking through the door, getting nothing in response from Meg.

"Randy," Joe tried again, a little louder, more urgent, "Randy, just get the door open. Now. Please."

No motion, just pleading, kiddo, hon, sister, talking about opening the door. Randy was long-gone in his own world, trying to talk Meg out of the bathroom.

* * *

Joe's fingers were a coppery red, and the ankle straps of Meg's shoes were sticky with blood. That, plus shards of glass, the broken phial, and the silence from the other side of the door - _'I just got her back, please, please no,' _\- and Joe quickly passed Randy's level of concern.

He shoved his hand in Randy's face at the door. "Look," he hissed, "Look at my hand. Can you please open the door now? Something. Is. Wrong."

For a split second, Randy didn't seem to understand what he was looking at, and then suddenly, his eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck. And she locked the door. If I just break the door open, and she's on the floor, it can hit her, and then what do we -"

Joe knelt down and ducked to look under the door. "She's standing. On a towel. And...on her dress? Now can we open the door?"

"How? I'm _not_ going to just bust the door down. _Neither_ are you. Someone will get hurt. Unless you have a better idea." Joe knew the tone in Randy's voice. As far as he was concerned, the only person who was going to open the door, short of Jesus, was going to be Meg.

Joe pressed his forehead to the door, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. Roses. And a sickly, metallic undertone. _'Please, let this work. You made a promise to me, now it's my turn.' _In his mind, his plan was perfectly, spontaneously, drunkenly, logical. There wasn't much sober thought going on in Randy's room at that moment, though none of the occupants seemed inclined to point out that particular fact.

Somewhere at the back of Meg's mind, it occurred to her that Randy was talking to her, and someone else was talking to him. _'Great, Meg. Wreck his night. He has company.' _The voice was familiar, somehow, but she couldn't place it. Her head ached, yet felt completely detached from the rest of her. _'I don't know what to do.'_ She went back to watching the glass move in her shoulders, transfixed. The room was getting hotter and hotter against her skin, even though her dress was around her ankles. Her bruises were dark, an angry red-violet that usually took a day or two to fully develop. _'I look crazy. Everything hurts. Maybe I can just bleed to death. Maybe I'm dead now. Everyone says Hell is hot.'_

Randy inhaled sharply. "Well? What's your -"

Joe held up a hand to silence Randy for the second time that night, then motioned him towards the floor, indicating he should look under the door. "Meg. Meg, I need you to listen to me now." Joe's voice was quiet, but firm. "A long time ago, you promised you would take care of me. Remember?"

The bathroom was silent and still.

"...And I wasn't good at letting you keep that promise. I made everything complicated. I was wrong. Meg, I need you to listen. Open the door, Meg."

Meg, slowly turning her head from the mirror toward the door, seemed to hear Joe's voice from a tunnel. _'Okay. Not in Hell. Why do you want me now?'_

Randy looked up. "She's not moving."

"Meg, please. I need you to listen. I need you to open the door. You promised to take care of me. Now I need to take care of you." Joe's palms had crept up the door, fingertips walking along the surface, willing his hands to be able to press through the door and touch her, to know she was breathing, alive.

Inside the bathroom, she cocked her head. _'Joe. The door. Right. Open it, Meg.' _Meg turned, slicing the soles of her feet on the bits of glass embedded in the bath towel and hiding in the folds of her mangled dress. She tried lifting her arm to the door handle, but the glass in her shoulders dug in one more time, harder. She wasn't close enough, couldn't reach that far, and Joe's voice started to rattle around in her head, competing with Jackson's, then Randy's, please, whore, promise, care, need, need, need, and Meg threw herself forward at the door, hands up as far as she could force them, praying she would catch the handle and hold on.

"Shit, shit, shit, she's falling!" Randy looked like he was trying to tunnel under the door, through the tiles, and Joe closed his eyes and prayed she was aiming for the handle. A sharp metallic ping confirmed what he hoped – Meg connected.

"Where did she land?" Joe was still leaning into the door, eyes shut, half-afraid of the answer that could come from Randy.

"She...didn't? Meg, what the fuck? Sit down! What are you doing?" Randy stopped trying to dig through the door and started banging on it instead.

"What is she doing?"

"She's fucking trying to hang on to the door. Meg, sit the fuck down. Joe, I swear to God, I saw her almost hit the floor, and now she's trying to stand up. Meg, stop it and sit down. We can't open the door if you're hanging on it, and if you fall, we're fucked. Sit! Down!"

"Randy...you know she's not going to listen." Joe started to panic. Meg was one problem he couldn't solve; Randy was about to be a second. One crisis was enough, two was beyond what he could handle with that much bourbon in his system. "Go get a drink. Let me see if I can talk her down. Shit, get two drinks, and bring my bourbon in."

Randy fixed a positively evil glare on Joe. "You've fucking lost it if you think I'm walking away from this door. Meg, stop trying to stand up!"

"Okay, okay. But at least stop yelling." Joe shook his head. "I'll go get our stuff. You watch her. Just...try to get her to calm down." _'Maybe that will get YOU to calm down.'_

Joe backed toward the balcony, not taking his eyes off of Randy or the bathroom door. He picked up both bottles - _'Liquid courage, right? Christ, do we need it,'_ \- and went back into the room. Randy, for all his protestation, drank heavily when Joe nudged him with the bottle of tequila. The bourbon made it as far as the floor near the frame of the door.

"Fine. Fine, I won't yell. But she's still against the door."

Joe leaned into the door again, keeping his voice low. "Meg? I'm still here, Meg. You hit the lock. It can open now, but you're still leaning on the door. I can't take care of you if I can't come in. Meg, you're hurt. I need to help you. I promise, I'll help you."

Meg's whole body was shaking from the effort of holding herself up across the narrow stretch of the bathroom, feet still tangled in the towel, hands locked around the handle of the door. _'Let go, Meg. Move.' _She shoved backwards as hard as she could, tripping herself in the towel and her dress, pulling down on the handle as she went. The door creaked quietly, slowly open, as though it was unaware of how quickly it ought to move, given the circumstances. Meg hit the edge of the counter with an audible grunt and dug her nails in, waiting. _'Why is it so hot? He promised. I promised.' _She waited.

They waited, too. The door continued to slowly swing open on its own, as though there was all the time in the world to deal with whatever came next. Randy hadn't stood from his crouch on the floor; Joe hadn't moved from the doorway. Finally, Meg's frame slid fully into view, coated in makeup, glass, blood, a thin sheen of sweat, clutching the edge of the bathroom counter like it was her last tether to the world, quivering, wearing only her bra and panties, drunk, breathing fast and shallow, bruised, and strangely, smiling.

"Hi...Ran...Joe...Sorry about the mess..." She went back to looking over her shoulder into the mirror, watching the glass move around between her shoulderblades.


	15. RePair

Randy was the first to move; oddly enough, he went for his suitcase and not for Meg. Returning with sandals on his feet, he danced the towel and dress into a ball and then nudged the pile of fabric into a far corner of the bathroom.

"Okay, Meg. Sit up here." He patted the surface of the counter. "Turn sideways and lean against the mirror, so you don't fall. Careful." He tried to palm Meg around the ribs gently, to ease her up onto the counter, but she whined and winced no matter how he touched her, finally folding forward over her knees, eyes staring blankly out into the room.

The first whimper brought Joe out of his stupor in the doorway; the second brought him in to the bathroom and directly to Meg's side. "Meg...hey. I'm here. You opened the door." The relief in his voice was palpable, but his mind was racing. _'She looks grey. She's going to pass out. How much blood was that? She's drunk. What did he do to her? I'm going to kill him."_

"You should leave, Joe." Meg's body didn't move, but her eyes slid directly to him.

"Wha-Meg, no. I'm here." He touched her hand, and she immediately pulled it away from him.

"I'm fine. I don't need you."

Randy shook his head. "Meg, you need to stop. I'm going to call Dave and get your luggage. Then, ice, extra washcloths and towels, and something for you to drink. _Don't_ argue with me, and _stop_ arguing with Joe." He looked over to his now-crestfallen friend. "Joe...she's drunk, she's hurt, she's _hurt_, and when you put all that together...she doesn't know what she's saying. Or doing. Don't take it like that." Randy rubbed Meg's available arm to get her attention. "And you – ease up on him. Don't do that shit. He's trying to help you. You _do_ need him."

Meg tensed, closed her eyes, and seemed to pull further into herself. _'I don't need someone else to hurt me. Just leave now. Leave me alone.'_

Randy stepped around Joe. "Look...I don't know what else to do. Just keep an eye on her, keep her awake. I'll try to be quick. Maybe you can get her cleaned up? I'm going to try to get Dave to come back with me – what else are we gonna do for her back?"

"I don't know," Joe whispered. "But you were wrong. She told me to leave her alone."

"Fucking stop it. Stay in there and _fix it."_ Randy grabbed his phone and was out the door before Joe could say anything to stop him, leaving him next to her as she perched on the bathroom counter. _'Should I even be telling you that, Joe? I should stay. You should stay. Should either one of us leave? Does it even matter? She's so gone right now...I'm gonna get help. What'd he do to you, Meggie?'_

* * *

Meg's head rested on her knees, lips parted, breath still coming in dry, quick pants. Blood still ran, albeit slowly, from under the larger pieces of glass between her shoulders, and he had to fight the urge to touch her, pull them out, press them in, scream, anything to make it stop. _'She's breathing. She's okay. Just keep her breathing.' _She didn't respond, but didn't move away from him, either.

"Meg? Meg, come on. Please. I'm trying. I know I fucked up, but I'm trying. I'm sorry. Not that I kissed you, that I was so fucking stupid after it. You don't even need to hear this right now, you don't owe me anything, and I'm fucking up again." He threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow down. "Please...just...tell me what you need me to do. I don't know what to do."

A dry, rasping laugh escaped Meg's throat, though her eyes never opened. "Shit. Me either." She forced her head to tilt to the side to look at him, squinting into the bright white of the room. "Light?" Joe paused for a second before understanding and dimming down the switch.

"Mmm. Better." Meg's breathing was no more even, but her face relaxed. _'Randy said don't argue.'_ She managed half a smile before her lip stung where Jackson's palm connected with her, and winced.

"What? What happened?" Before Joe could help himself, he was looming over Meg, brushing the snarls of hair away from her face, trying unsuccessfully to urge her into an upright position. She recoiled into the mirror, ducking her face behind her hands as much as was possible. _'Joe, stop. You're scaring her. Could you be any worse at this?' _He snatched his hands away from her and squeezed his eyes shut.

"No. It's okay." Meg was quiet, but even. "I'm sorry." Her hands had dropped. "I know it's you."

Joe looked up, shocked. "Meg, no...don't apologize." _'Whatever you do, dumbass, don't touch her again. Don't move unless she asks you.' _Meg shifted uncomfortably. "Just...tell me what to do. I promise, I'll help. Don't apologize, just let me help."

She twisted on the counter, fully this time, ignoring the pain between her shoulders, forcing her eyes open in the dim light. "Don't promise." Her voice was cold.

"I'm not him. I fucked up, but I never lied to you."

She blinked a few times, as though she had to be sure of who she was seeing in front of her, and then crept her outer hand across to the edge of the counter, tracing her fingers over his, intuitively finding his hand. _'And you're here now. And I missed you. And I need to stop taking it out on you.'_

Joe watched her fingers trail over his, barely breathing, willing himself not to make yet another mistake. "Meg, all I want is-"

"Can you undo this shit in my hair? It hurts."

Joe eased onto the counter behind her, not moving his hand from under hers. _'She still feels like snow, and right now that's terrifying.'_ His new vantage point afforded him a complete view of her back, glass still protruding like slivers of mercury, blood in various states of wet and dry. With his free hand, he probed for hairpins, tossing them into the sink in front of her as he found them. Meg's updo slowly came apart, falling lightly around her face and neck as Joe pried snarls apart from tangles, rubbing as he went, avoiding bruises, carefully lifting pieces of the broken mirror out of her hair, and considering the problem of her makeup.

"You know, you didn't need this shit to look nice."

"I didn't look nice anyway."

Joe sighed, and looked around for a washcloth. "Can I get it off you, then?"

Meg yanked her hand away from his, and tried to push forward on the counter. _'Leave me alone...I want my dress...where is Randy...'_ Logical thought left her entirely, and she began to panic.

"Wait, what did I do?" Joe backed away from her again. _'Think, think, what did...oh Jesus Christ, Joe, really? Really?' _Mentally, he kicked himself. "Meg, no, stop, that's not what I meant. Meg, stop!" Joe hadn't meant to yell, but it worked – Meg froze mid-scuttle. "Stop. I meant your makeup. I was looking for a washcloth for your makeup. To take it off."

Her entire body shivered; her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sor-sorry."

"Meg, what did he do to you?"

She closed her eyes, waited, thought, felt everything a second time – every thrust, tear, slap, punch – all in an instant, and couldn't explain to Joe what it meant. In that moment, Meg was deeply glad he stayed behind her when he backed away. She wasn't sure she could have met his eyes without betraying herself. "Everything." Unconsciously, she tightened her thighs against each other, a movement not lost on Joe. He felt a cold net of rage settle over him, and prayed for one more elevator ride that night – not for her, but for him. "Everything. Sex is always like this with him. And the glass...he's still..." She trailed off, unsure of how to say what she meant.

"Tell me."

"He's still in me."

Joe didn't speak; anything he could have said in response would have come out as a howl Meg would have been only too glad to join him in. Instead, he moved back to the counter, guided her into a forward lean, and covered as much of her back as he could with towels.

"Where's your bourbon?" Meg broke the silence, mumbling into her knees, grateful for any topic that wasn't aimed at her.

Joe quirked his head. "How'd you know?"

"Randy likes tequila. You like bourbon. And you're close enough I smell it."

Joe edged just far enough away from the counter to pick up his bottle of Van Winkle from outside the bathroom. "Randy would kill me for this, but here. Be numb. Then, the glass." Meg drank greedily, praying for relief, oblivion, anything to erase the night from her memory, then leaned forward over herself on the counter. Joe, after a drink of his own, stood behind Meg, unsure of how to start.

Reading his mind, Meg muttered down into her knees. "Don't think. Just do it."

"I can't hurt you, Meg." Joe lifted his hand tentatively, touching one of the embedded shards, but recoiled when she twitched reflexively. "I...Meg, this isn't going to-" _'This is going to hurt. I'm sorry.'_

"Joe, you promised." Meg was quiet, soft, not slurring, but with a voice on the edge of surrender. "You said you promised."

He looked down at her shoulders, then up at the ceiling, hoping for guidance, inspiration, intervention – nothing came. Carefully, he wrapped his left arm around her, and Meg clung to him, tucking her head into the crook of his elbow. "Okay. Okay. I'm so sorry. Just...I don't know..." Joe counted eight pieces that had to come out, excluding other cuts that would need closure. _'Start by starting. Pick one and pull. She can't do it herself.' _Opting for one of the larger shards, he carefully closed two fingers around it, barely lifted, and pulled firmly _out_. Meg clenched around his arm, then relaxed. _'Relaxed too much. Wake up, stay with me...' _Joe tried to catch her eyes in the mirror, but she was too far compressed into his arm. "Meg? Baby? Come on, stay with me. Talk to me. Keep talking to me. Tell me what to do. Tell me anything."

Meg rode Joe's voice back into reality, willing herself to come out of the haze she started to slip into. "Tell you...wh...what?" She tried to curl tighter around him, but didn't have the energy.

Joe just shook his head. He had to make this quick; she wasn't going to hold up long. "Okay, hon. Okay. I'm going to finish this as fast as I can. No more glass, okay? Then it's all over. Just keep talking to me. Tell me about Saint Julian. Or tell me about your name." Working around her bra, Joe slipped another two pieces of glass out while he spoke. _'Three down, five to go. She just needs to stay awake.'_

"Julian...patron of...hospital workers...carnival wor...workers...travelers...wanderers. And murderers. If I...In case I'm a bad medic."

Joe couldn't resist the full-out laugh; it was music to Meg and she smiled into his arm. "So he's got your bases covered? Hospitals, traveling, wandering – that's only when Randy drives – carnivals – yeah, _that's_ backstage – and just in case you really have an off day, murdering is on the list. How'd you find this guy?"

"A prof...this nun...at college. Ethics. She..." Meg started to trail off when Joe slipped a particularly long, thin sliver of glass out of her shoulder. It ran deep, and was lower down than the rest, parallel to her shoulder blade.

"She what, baby? Keep telling me, I'm listening. The nun who taught ethics in college, go on." _'Keep going, Meg, you're killing it. Two pieces to go and we're done. He's gone.'_

"She...she...I don't..." Joe rolled a short, stumpy piece of glass out of her skin.

"Last one, Meg. Stay with me."

"She...my name. Long story. The meh...meh...thing...was a gift."

The last piece was nearly impossible to grasp. It was in deep, curved, and had almost nothing exposed. "This last one is going to be a bitch, Meg. I won't lie." He rested his head on the top of her shoulder and looked down. Her back was a smeared, red canvas. _'And I helped do this to you.'_

"Keep going."

"Why was the medallion a gift?" He pressed along the edge of the mirror under her skin, trying to find the bottom of the shard. She groaned as he went. "Meg, focus. Tell me why it was a gift."

"Because...my name…"

Joe found the bottom of the broken glass, and pressed upward along the curve, trying to work it out from the bottom. There was nothing for him to grip at the top unless he managed to get more of the piece to present itself, his fingers were too large. "Your name is Meg, right? What does that have to do with Julian?"

"Magdalena. Religious parents."

"That explains your credit cards. So it's Meg for short?"

Meg suddenly felt heavier against his arm. "Meg?" He worked faster, forcing the piece of glass, dragging it out of her back. "Meg, wake up. Come on, Meg, wake up. Finish your story, talk to me." She was breathing, but she didn't move. Carefully, he pulled her backwards against his chest, pressed a towel between them to staunch her bleeding, and waited. "Come on, baby," he whispered, "Wake up. Come back." Cradling her, he reached for a washcloth, wet it over the hair clips in the sink, and began gently daubing at her makeup.


	16. Why Don't You Act Right?

Randy returned after an eternity, ice bucket in hand, rolling Meg's suitcase with a stack of towels and washcloths balanced on it, not sure what he would find in his suite. Knocking first, then testing the keycard, Randy carefully opened the door and waited a few seconds before stepping in. _'All I need is to get beat to death if Joe thinks I'm Jackson breaking in.'_

"Joe? Meg? I'm back, but Dave was tied up on a triage call. He let me get Meg's stuff, but he's gonna be a couple hours before he gets here...hello?" The bathroom light was dim, and Joe had piled the glass and hairclips on a washcloth; Randy's stomach heaved when he saw the remnants of what was lodged in Meg's back. The tub was dry, the sink was wet, and all of Meg's clothing was in the bathroom trashbin. Even the used towels and washcloths were in the hamper.

The suite itself was dark. The bedside light was turned off, and the contents of Meg's clutch were moved to the bedside table. For a split second, Randy thought the worst, that something awful had happened and they'd had to leave, wondering why Joe hadn't called him if that was the case. Then, he heard Meg's small, quiet voice from further in the suite. _'The balcony? What the fuck are they doing out there?'_ Randy left the luggage, brought a few towels and the ice, and went toward the sound.

* * *

It felt like hours for Meg to wake up. When she did, slowly shifting in Joe's arms, her fingers were unconsciously playing with the ends of his hair, and a thin, sleepy smile played on her face.

"Welcome back. You had me worried." As hard as Joe worked to sound casual, the fear was still evident in his voice.

"Can't tap out now. I owe you." Meg shivered involuntarily, and Joe pulled her in closer. "Is there water? I'm kinda dizzy..." Her nose crinkled. _'Needy, Meg. Get yourself together.'_

Joe scanned the bathroom. "No cups here, but I bet I can find a bathrobe to keep you warm. Some kinda five-star hotel, right? Come on. I'll be careful."

He carefully stood with her in his arms and moved into the suite, towards the wetbar. On the way, he nudged open a small closet across from the bathroom and shouldered a cottony bathrobe from its hanger. Catching it on its way to the floor, he draped it over Meg – a far cry from being put on properly, but a better start than they had in minutes prior.

"Still doing okay?"

"I feel like death. So, yeah." Joe chose to take Meg's sarcasm as a good sign; she was at least awake enough to be witty.

"Almost there. One glass of water, coming up." _'I wonder if I can talk her into letting me order room service.'_ "You good if I set you down on the counter? Not gonna fall?"

"We'll find out, right?"

"Not funny." Joe frowned and kept one hand gently on her shin after he placed her as far back on the wetbar as he could. Meg tilted forward to keep the towel in place on her back, but jolted when he put her down; the marble was cold against the backs of her legs.

"I'll hurry, hang on." He topped off a glass in the sink, scooped her and her robe back into his arms, and fussed at her when she began to grope around on the counter for the water.

"I can hold it. You can't carry everything. Besides – what's your plan?" Meg's teeth were beginning to chatter. _'You really need a plan. I don't have one, either. And I need the water, sooner rather than later.'_

"Plan?"

"Exactly, Captain Bathrobe."

Joe rolled his eyes, more at himself than at her. "Okay. Uh...here. You, on the bed." Joe slowly knelt at the foot of the bed, settling Meg carefully on the edge, holding the towel against her back. "Can this come off now?"

"_If_ it comes off. If it sticks, don't move it."

Joe started a slow peel on the towel, wordlessly begging anything that was listening to let it come away easily. For the first time that night, luck went his way. Uncomfortably but cleanly, he was able to remove it.

"Can you wear a shirt over the cuts, or is that a bad idea? That, then the bathrobe?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Meg attempted to contort herself into the water glass; Joe had to help her make the reach. The relief on her face after each sip was evident, and he coached her through half the glass before digging through Randy's suitcase. He came up with a black, worn t-shirt. _'He probably won't mind. And if he does, I'll punch him.' _"Here we go. And clean."

With the offer of clean clothing, Meg suddenly felt filthy. Joe had combed through her hair and managed to get most of her makeup off; the smudges that were left would take remover to lift. It was the residual, sweaty film coating the rest of her body, and the feel of Jackson drying between her legs, that made her want to burn her bones and run.

"Er, Joe?" The glass of water started to slide from her hands; Meg struggled to find a way to place it on the floor. "I don't...I'm wearing...can I..." _'How do you ask someone to take your bra off? Oh, by the way, please don't think I'm disgusting. I smell like sex.' _She crushed her eyes shut and balled her hands into frustrated fists. "I can't talk."

Confused for the hundredth time that night, Joe held perfectly still over Randy's suitcase. "I'll wait, Meg. I'm not going anywhere." _'You call the shots, baby. What are you trying to tell me?'_

"I can wear _that_," Meg breathed, looking over to the shirt Joe was holding. "I can't wear _this,_" She looked down at herself, still in her bra and panties from her night with Jackson. _'Please let him understand what I mean.'_

_'I have no idea what she means.' _"O-okay..." Joe stalled for time, trying to roll her words into shapes that made sense. _'She's not wearing anything. Her dress is gone. Her shoes are gone. All she's got on are her br-oh. Oh shit. Oh no.' _His mind reeled, locked, reeled again. _'I can't undress her. Not like that. I can, but no. It's...no.' _Joe knew nothing would happen between them that night, but he couldn't help his past thoughts of Meg, either. Given the context of _that_ evening, guilt exploded in the pit of his stomach.

Meg hadn't moved from the end of the bed. She hadn't cried, tried to reach for the shirt, do anything more than clutch the bathrobe, undress herself, look at him, nothing. If it wasn't for the constant full-body tremor coursing through her, she may as well have been a piece of furniture. _'Too much, Meg. You fucked up. He wouldn't want to touch you, anyway. Why do you want him to touch you? Didn't you do enough, tonight? Confused much, Meg? Get your head together.'_

"Sorry. Uh, here. I had to think about how to do this. Can I sit behind you?" Joe moved cautiously from the suitcase to the edge of the bed, waiting for permission to come closer.

Meg nodded slowly, waiting for Joe to recoil once he realized what she was, what was left of her. _'It's coming, Meg. Don't be surprised.'_ She felt the bed sink under his weight.

"It's okay. I think I figured it out. Can I touch you?" Meg nodded, and Joe put his hands over the tops of her shoulders. _'Take it easy, big man. Don't scare her. Nice and easy.' _He leaned close to the back of her neck, speaking quietly. "Straps first, then the back, then we'll figure out how to move your arms. I'm staying right here. Okay?"

Meg nodded again. _'He's warm, and this is safe.'_

"One at a time, Meg. It's me." He slipped one finger under the left strap on her bra and slid his palm down her arm until the elastic went slack and he could cup her elbow in his hand. "Still okay? I want you to know where my hands are. I'm not going to do anything to you." Meg nodded again. "Okay. Next one. If I need to stop, tell me." Joe slid the strap down her arm in the same way, ending with his hand on her elbow, still hovering over her.

"I'm fine." Her voice was raspy, as though she was fighting with herself.

"Meg, I'm serious, if there's something you-"

"I just want it off. Please."

Joe sighed, his breath warm across the back of her neck. He slid his hands from her elbows up to the back of her bra and paused, trying to decide the best approach, letting his hands linger on her sides while he thought. _'Think faster, before she loses it...' _He gently pressed the tab-side down, while slipping a finger under the hooks and tugging them loose. Meg's back tensed with the pressure; Joe watched, entranced, as she arched slightly away from him before coming back to neutral. _'Stop it, asshole. You're supposed to be helping her.'_

Joe slid his hands back up to her elbows, catching the straps and pushing them fully down. Meg lifted her arms just enough for Joe to fully sweep the garment away from her; he dropped it to the side of the bed and closed his hands around hers. _He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. _"Let's get that shirt." Joe managed, even with his hands holding hers, to keep a respectful distance between her bare skin and his chest, but she closed it by leaning back. He immediately snapped his head toward the ceiling, even though he couldn't see anything indecent.

"Meg...what are you doing?" His voice was a low rumble, and Meg wanted to crawl inside of him and die there. She pulled his arms around her stomach with no small amount of effort. Joe moved slowly, but didn't fight her. "Talk to me, Meg. I don't understand. I don't want to hurt you...your back." She pulled his hands up to her lips and pressed kisses into his palms.

"Just...thank you." She shifted her weight away from him. "So, about that shirt?"

Joe slowly let go of her left hand, reached across the bed, and felt for Randy's shirt. _'Did she...Jesus. She doesn't know; Randy didn't tell her.' _He shook out the shirt, organized the sleeves, and slipped them on her, moving slowly, careful not to touch any more of her than was necessary. He lifted the shirt over her head and smoothed her hair as the fabric dropped over her shoulders. She was drowning in cloth, but she was at least dressed. "Bathrobe next. You need to warm up."

"Can I stand?"

Joe stood and eased Meg to vertical, watching Randy's shirt drape down to mid-thigh. Spider-like, Meg's fingers crawled through the fabric, then against the outside of her legs, gathering, bunching, looking for the hem of her panties. Managing to hook an edge, she tugged down, wrists working back and forth, dropping the bottom of Randy's shirt as she went. Joe looked to the ceiling for the umpteenth time. _'How am I even looking at her like that? The fuck is wrong with me after all this shit tonight?'_ Meg let the panties fall to her feet and stepped out of them, nudging them toward her bra with her foot.

"Joe?" Meg's confusion was evident in her voice. "What're you looking for?"

Chuckling dryly at being caught staring upward, Joe stood, bathrobe in hand. "Honestly? I don't know. An answer." He moved to her front, draped the robe around her, and, tempting fate, pulled the front closed. "I think you've always been the answer."

"Joe...you've got her, and I don't-"

"That's over. I ended it."

The floor fell out from under Meg, or the ceiling flew away, she wasn't sure, but a cartwheeling lightness stole gravity, took the air away from her, replaced by a delicious, tingling spiral stretching from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. "Show me."

It was Joe's turn to freeze in place. _'What the fuck is this? What the everloving fuck is going on? What does she-' _Meg pushed up on her toes as far as she could and pressed a kiss into the side of his neck, ignoring the pain in her back from the tilt. Impulsively, he leaned down, nosed her face back, and kissed her deeply, both of them testing the depths of the bourbon's taste until Meg winced and backed down.

"Joe...I'm sorry." Meg looked terrified. "I shouldn't have...I just…" Her eyes found the floor, and stayed there, horrified at herself. _'Act like what Jackson made you, Meg. Very classy. If he didn't think you were dirty and fucked-up before, he does now.'_

It took Joe a second to come down from his high. "Meg, no. If you _knew_. Do _not_ be sorry. Tonight, just...be sure about everything. I don't want to...I mean…" He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "I don't want to act like him. What's too much, I mean."

"Nothing new about Jackson, tonight. I had you to help, is all. And I was always sure about _you_, idiot." She managed half a smile and a small swat at his arm.

"For that, you're getting room service." Joe feigned a wounded look, breathing easier with Meg's playful gesture. How she found it in her to be lighthearted, or even affectionate, he didn't know, but he would gladly take it.

"And for _that_, I'm finishing your bourbon. On the balcony."

"I'll get you a chair and the bottle. Let me take care of things in here, and I'll come sit with you til food or Randy gets here, whatever comes first."

He guided her outside and watched her enjoy her first relaxed breath of the night, in the warm air.

* * *

Randy poked his head out onto the balcony, not entirely surprised to find the bourbon and tequila bottles on the table outside. More surprising was the soup bowl next to the bottles, more surprising still was Joe, holding Meg's hand, talking and laughing softly with her.

"Patched things up, I see?" Randy folded his arms across his chest, voice sharp.

"He's seen me in my underwear; I think we're past the awkward phase." Meg was smiling, albeit with a full awareness of the splits in her lips. "But he has terrible aim with a spoon."

"That's what napkins are for, baby. Hush."

"What alternate universe did I land in?" Randy looked thoroughly confused. "I mean...here. I brought ice. For ice packs." He thumped the bucket down on the table, tossing the towels down on top of the ice. "Joe, c'mere for a minute."

"Go get your knuckles swatted," Meg whispered, "I can fold ice towels." She brushed the back of her hand lightly against Joe's cheek and shifted herself slowly toward the table.

* * *

Joe shuffled after Randy, closing the balcony door behind him. Once Randy heard it click, he spun around. "What the fuck did I tell you before I left? Hm? What did I say to you?" His voice was an angry hiss he hoped didn't carry outside. _'She has no idea what she's doing right now. She can't.'_

"What, exactly, is the problem? This is the best she's been all night. Maybe all week. Month. I don't know; _you_ would know. Why don't _you_ go ask her?"

"You're being a self-centered asshole. I told you to leave her alone! You fucking saw what she looked like, you can guess what he did to her-"

Joe cut him off. "No, you _didn't_ tell me to leave her alone. You told me to _respect_ her if she told me to go away. So far, she hasn't. We're actually talking. It's _good_. And she told me what happened to her. Meg said it's always like that with her and Jackson, and she said she ended it."

"And," Meg cut in from the doorway, "Joe actually told me to slow it down tonight." Both men jumped; neither heard her open the door from the balcony. She eased into the room, toward Randy, lowering her voice when she spoke. "You saved my ass tonight. If I didn't have your room key, it would have been so much worse. You've _always_ been there when I needed you. Now, I need you to trust me. And him."

Randy looked from Meg to Joe and back again. "Meg...you're asking a lot. Jackson could have killed you. You can't just ask me not to watch out for you."

"I know, Ran. But you're watching out against one of your friends. That's not right." Time froze in the room, both men trying to stare each other down, Meg caught in the middle of a second war. "Guys...I'm not Helen of Troy. If this is the bullshit I'm going to cause..." The defeat in Meg's voice was overwhelming. "I don't want to destroy you. _Either _of you."

Randy relented, pulled Meg gently to him, and kissed the top of her head. "Take the master bed," he whispered, "There's a spare room in the back, I'll be in there if you need me." He lifted his suitcase and disappeared to the rear of the suite, shoulder checking Joe on the way. _'What did I just set up?'_

"Asshole," Joe muttered.

"Hey now." Meg reached for Joe. "Help me with the ice, and let's stay in? My back needs it. The bleeding is done; the bruising, not so much." Joe continued to look over Meg's head, in the general direction Randy went. "Hey. You up there." The tension hadn't left Joe's jaw; Meg knew Randy had hit a nerve. "Look...we're all too tired for this. I just want to be in bed. With you. Safe."

_'Safe.' _"Right...sorry, baby. He just…"

"Let's get the ice and lay down." Meg half-stifled a yawn. "I'm fading anyway. Conversation sounds easier than standing."

Joe carried her the few strides to the bed, ignoring her protests. "You figure out the blankets, I'll get the ice." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and went back to the balcony. _'And now we're getting in bed together. Right.'_ Returning with the ice Meg had folded into the towels, he found her stiffly adjusting the pillows and smoothing the sheets.

"Trying to get it right for you." Meg shrugged.

"Are you going to be in there?"

"Unless you kick me out, yeah."

"Then it's fine." Joe smiled. "Lay down, babygirl. Where do you want the ice?"

Meg slowly sprawled up the length of the bed, tucking her legs under the sheets. "Back, ankle, and more back, please."

Joe took his time adjusting the ice, thinking about Jackson and what he planned to do to him when – not if – he found him.

"Stop that. He's not worth it, and I'm fine." Meg was half-asleep, but still fully aware of the simmering rage in Joe.

"Get out of my head."

"It's so roomy up there, though," Meg teased, "I could move in, really."

"You already have." Joe sat back behind her, and she watched his shadow play over the wall as he took off his shirt and sweatpants, cast in moonlight from the balcony. He stretched out next to her, careful with his movements. "Meg, like I said, I want you to be sure about this. You had a shitty night, and that's an understatement, so-"

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. Look. It's always this bad with Jackson. Not _this_ bad, he's never put me through a mirror before, but he's always been like this about..." Meg started to pick invisible lint off the sheets. "I'm not looking at you and thinking _'Gee, there's some guy, I bet he can save me,'_ and I hope that's not what _you_ think, either."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what?"

"I mean...you've been in my head for months, and I don't want this to be completely fucked up because we go rushing into it just because it's there and we can. I want to _know_ you."

"Then talk to me." Meg tangled her fingers in the ends of Joe's hair. "I'm never going to get tired of this," she murmured, more to herself than anything else.

"Mmm. What should I talk to you about?" Joe closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. "Anything?"

"Anything." As much as the ice would let her, she pressed in against him, enjoying the feel of his skin, the soft strands of his hair, the ridge of the band on his boxers. Every fiber of her body ached, she was exhausted, and the low purr of his voice began to lull her to sleep. Her eyes fluttered, she relaxed, and finally, she let go of the night and slipped away.


	17. Et Lux In Tenebris Lucet

The trek toward morning was peppered by the buckshot of nightmares for Meg. Every half hour or so, she would call out, reach out, flinch inward, something – always something telling Joe her mind was working in overdrive, trying to process the events of the night, if not the entire relationship she'd just ended. Joe, sitting up in their bed, refused sleep in order to watch her.

Joe had long since removed the ice-packed towels from Meg's back and ankles; she'd woken up enough then to fish a pair of panties out of her suitcase and put them on before trying to drop back into sleep. He winced when he saw the deep bruises and gashes streaking across her skin. _'I can hardly wait to see the front of her, if this is what the back looks like.'_ The bruises between her thighs had run so deep from the front they were now inky and visible from the back, and while he knew he should have been uncomfortable at how far her shirt had ridden up in order to afford him that particular view of her injuries, he couldn't help but stare – not because it was a turn-on, but because he wanted to catalog each physical slight, burn them into memory, and hurt Jackson the same way and worse. Meg hadn't asked him not to do anything, she'd only asked him to stop thinking about it. _'Thinking isn't doing, Meg. I never said I wouldn't do anything, and you never made me promise. I only promise I won't get caught.'_

Joe had pulled as much of the quilt and blankets over her as he could, and kept adjusting the blankets as she slept. He wished he could find a way to drape an arm over her. Instead, he had settled for carefully snaking a leg between hers, close to her knees, trying to offer her some sense of stability and shivering at the chill of her skin. Throughout the night, he brushed the back of his hand against her arms, trailed his fingers through the ends of her hair, whispered to her that he was with her, she was safe – but nothing stopped her contortions and vocalizations. Now, without thinking, he brushed the back of his hand against her face. Meg's eyes snapped open, and she began to push backward on the bed, panic-stricken and gasping for air, blankets flying in all directions. _'Shit, Joe, really? Really? You don't learn, do you? What happened to not touching her unless she asked?'_

Realizing she was about to backpedal off the bed, Joe grabbed at her, praying he wouldn't hurt her or make her scream. He aimed for her hip, ignoring the fact her shirt was now completely up around her waist, and dropped his arm firmly over her, trying to hold her in place rather than fight her motion or try to drag her. "Meg, stop. It's me. It's Joe – you're at the hotel. You're in Randy's room, remember? It was just a dream. You're safe. Stop. Nobody's going to hurt you. You're okay, Meg. Everything's okay." Joe hoped he wasn't hurting her. He couldn't touch her shoulders, didn't want to grab her hands, knew her lower back was too bruised from the elevator railing...he had so few options. He tried to pull his leg back from where it was tangled between hers, but he felt her struggle harder when he moved.

"No, let go of me!" Meg's voice was hoarse, loud, her terror rising palpably.

"Meg, babygirl, stop. Stop. It's me. Joe. It's okay now. It's all okay." Everything in her eyes was blank and glassy, as though she was drugged, but her brain was somehow moving at high speed, trying to fight to remember where she was, what she was doing, what she wasn't doing – nothing was coming to her. "Meg, please, stop. I promise, it's okay now. It's safe. Please."

_'I promise' Meg...Meg, come on, where are you – that's not Jackson's voice, where are you? Think, Meg, wake the fuck up and think! Where are you?_" She felt something heavy tangled between her legs, something heavy on her hip, and then reality slammed into her – Joe. She really _was_ safe, he really _was_ here, everything really _was_ fine, he promised. As quickly as she started, her entire body went slack and stopped fighting, breathing heavy, eyes slowly focusing, her hand nearest Joe slowly creeping up to his tattoo and lightly tracing some of the thicker lines.

"You know, we're lucky." Meg's voice was breathy, low, sounding desperate for water. Joe didn't dare move.

"Lucky, baby?"

"Randy sleeps like the dead when he's been drinking. He would have been out here to kill you, otherwise."

Joe blinked, opened his mouth to speak, blinked again. He managed to huff out a chuckle, then another, then Meg giggled, then their efforts at silence were a lost cause as they both dissolved into laughter until Meg couldn't stand it and began a wicked coughing fit.

"Shit, Meg, here. Wait here. I'll get water. Joe practically launched himself at the wetbar, filling another glass with water as Meg attempted to get her arms under her, slowly righting herself to a sitting position. Joe slipped back into bed around her, lifting her the rest of the way up while pressing the glass of water into her hands and holding her against his chest.

"Nightmare?"

"There's an understatement." Meg sipped at the water. "Ever felt like you can't get away from something? You're running so hard you're ready to die, you look behind you, but then you look forward again, and wham, it's there. Like nothing you did even mattered." _'But here...this matters.'_

"Hm. Yeah, I've had nightmares like that." Joe nudged the glass of water in her hands, trying to encourage her to drink. "But once you're awake, it's better."

"Then I think I may be done with sleep for a while." Meg adjusted herself in his lap, leaning her head into the curve his shoulder formed with his arm wrapped around her stomach. "Besides, in _your_ nightmares, you probably just turn around and punch the thing into submission." She pulled his arm tighter around her. "I have a hard time picturing you being afraid of things." She passed the now-empty glass to him, and returned her hand to its much-preferred task of tracing the lines of his tattoo.

"Afraid of losing you," Joe whispered, resting his chin on top of her head, "For the longest, I thought I did."

"You feel like staying up for a bit?" Meg pretended not to have heard him, letting her fingernail bite his skin slightly as she trailed down a line of ink on the inside of his arm. "I'm not ready to try for sleep again. That was...too much." She watched, fascinated, as he shivered under her touch and immediately and unsubtly tried to adjust his position under her.

"There's an understatement." Joe growled, conflicted over enjoying her ministrations and caught up in planning a slow demise for Jackson. "Move with me. If we're going to stay like this -"

"And we are," Meg cut in.

"- Then I'm going to want some pillows." He let go of her only long enough to prop some pillows against the headboard before sliding up the bed and leaning against them, stretching his legs out as he went. "Much better. You comfortable?"

"I have you, don't I?" Meg burrowed against him, pulling his arms back around her, shirt riding up so that the backs of her thighs were pressed into the top of Joe's right leg, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, sounding, anything. She reached down for a blanket, covering his legs and her lap. "Don't I?" _'What did you do, Meg? You did something. Too much, too far...you always do something, fuck something up. You're the best at that! Good work, Meg…'_

It was several seconds before Joe trusted himself to speak coherently, her skin disorienting, searingly cold against his leg. _'Always like ice. Snow and roses. And now she's yours.'_ He looked down at her, her eyes searching his for an answer, almost fearful, and he knew he had waited too long to speak. "Meg...of course you do." Slowly, he cupped her jawline in his hand, half-smiling as he watched her face disappear in his palm when he touched her. _'Jesus, she's tiny. Unreal. How could he...no. Not now.'_ "I'm sorry. I was...I was thinking about how your legs feel. Of course you have me."

The relief that came over Meg was like watching a tidal wave crash over a beach – the slate of her face was smoothed, calmed, and the waters receded leaving no trace of what unrest was there before. Slowly, with every ache and stab to remind her of who came first, she turned into Joe as far as she could and began to kiss him. Trails up his neck to the underside of his jaw, nipped lines across his collarbones, kisses deep and pressing into the thick muscles of his chest, feathering lightly where her reach ran out, all the while tracing, tracing, tracing the lines of his tattoo, tapping dots, flicking dashes, feeling him constantly adjust, re-adjust, try to move by and around her to prevent her from any real awareness of him against her, until finally she pressed herself up to him, pulling his arm tight against her hip.

"You said I have you," she breathed across his chest, "And I...just...let me feel this."

"Meg, I don't want to – I mean, I want to – but I'm afraid I'm going to...just...be too much, right now."

"Shh. Stop. You're not."

She continued kissing him, anything she could reach, fingertips, the inside of his wrists, until she felt his breathing slow and become heavier. His eyes were shut, and finally, he had done what Meg couldn't – fallen into a sound slumber. Meg smiled, slowed, but refused to stop. She would spend the rest of the night kissing him if it meant staying awake, staying away from the nightmare where she couldn't outrun Jackson, couldn't save herself, couldn't save Joe – but that was for another time. For now, she would spend her time memorizing every curve and sinew, every inch of skin, and wait for morning to break.

* * *

Morning brought the entirely new terror of a shower. Meg craved the clean water, her rose scented soap, the waves of lather that would flow down her and pool over her toes and swirl across the bottom of the tub, and the security of her own clothing – but knew exactly how much her shoulders would burn in the process. Along with her back, her thighs, all of her. Randy had been kind enough to bring her suitcase the night before, and Dave had been kind enough to show up in the morning to butterfly-close her cuts, but everything was an open, oozing sore in Meg's mind.

Randy and Joe alternated between cordial and being at each other's throats, Dave was vacillating between furious with her and drowning in concern, Jackson loomed in the periphery of Meg's life like Chernobog, and well – she didn't know what to make of the whole thing, other than that Joe was a stable rock in a sea of abject misery, most of which she had caused. _'The only thing you can solve is the shower. You smell like a barn. Start there.'_ She left the men to talk amongst themselves and grumble over the room service menu while she pawed through her suitcase and slipped silently toward the bathroom.

Getting her arms out of Randy's shirt was easy enough; the openings to the sleeves were practically large enough for her to crawl through. Figuring out how to maneuver her head through the top of the shirt was problematic. She bunched as much of the fabric up as high as she could, pausing to think. Tossing the bundled fabric up and tilting to the side, encouraging gravity to take over and drape the fabric around her neck, Meg managed to get the shirt to dangle like an oversized scarf. A few strategic shakes, and she managed to toss it off, only breaking one butterfly closure in the process. _'Not bad. Now the room needs to stop spinning. You overdid it, dumbass.'_

Tentatively, Meg reached for the faucets, deciding she would shower in whatever temperature her first twists created, rather than bend too many times and risk passing out. As luck would have it, she landed on 'scalding hot,' but she gritted her teeth and went with it. _'I just have to be in here long enough to get him off of me. Hotter is better for that.' _Her soap felt like silk; she made the washcloth creamy with it, and for a few minutes, it was easy for Meg to forget that anything was wrong, as long as she didn't think or scrub too hard. Moving from soap to shampoo brought her screeching back to reality – her arms failed, shoulders locked, more butterfly closures sprang from her skin, the water began to run red. _'Oh well, Meg. Commit. Clean up. You can't rely on him for everything.' _The air was thick with steam, and Meg was finding it harder and harder to breathe, to remember if she locked the door behind her, to remember if she even told anyone out in the main rooms she was taking a shower. _'At least I got the soap out. I smell like roses, and he likes that. Get out now, Meg. Get out before it gets bad.'_

Joe tested the bathroom door just as Meg reached for a towel. "Babygirl? You okay? You've been in here for a minute...or forty-five. Can I come in?" He had already let himself in; regardless of her answer, he was going to be in the room with her. Randy and Dave had insisted; Joe had no complaints. Standing in the moist air was like being surrounded by swirling atoms of Meg, like feeling wet rose petals cling to his skin and sink into him.

"I think so. I fucked up my back. Again. I'm such a mess." Meg tried to wrap the towel around herself, but her arms were becoming more leaden by the second.

"Meg?" Joe's voice instantly took on a hard edge, more from fear than any real anger at her. "Stand still. Let me help." Shaky, grey, her skin cold despite the intense heat of the room, Meg clutched the towel around her as though it would somehow keep her from floating away. "I'm going to move the curtain, Meg. It's okay. It's safe."

The light from the bathroom overheads blinded Meg for a second time as Joe leaned over her in the relative darkness behind the shower curtain, pulling her forward, keeping the towel wrapped exactly as she had it. "Goddamnit, Meg, your back. Again. What happened?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to." Her shins banged against the edge of the tub as she gracelessly tried to step out. She could feel her eyes burning, in part from the lights, in part from trying to hold back tears.

Joe lifted her gently, allowing her the impression that she had done more to step out than she actually had. She pushed away from him and wobbled toward the door, thudding into the frame. "Babygirl, c'mere. We can fix your back. You still need to get dressed. It's okay."

Wordlessly, Meg let the towel fall away, let Joe hold her up and move straps and clasps and strings and ties over and around her, adjust and slide, slip and tug, until she looked like herself again, save for the ratty, damp hair. She opened a small bottle of oil – _'Of course, it's rose scented. Would my Meg be anything else?' - _and poured a few drops into his hands.

"You rub your hands together, then through, then comb. That's all."

"Anything you need, babygirl."

She expected him to simply pat the oil through her hair and be done with it, but he sat her on the counter, kissed her softly, and stroked her hair until she was almost purring, resting her head against his shoulder. "Feeling better? You had me worried. Again." He teased her, but with a hint of concern underlying his tone.

"If I tell you no, will you keep going?"

"I'll do whatever you need me to do."

Their reverie was broken by Dave, knocking gently on the door. "You two okay in there? It's a little too quiet. Meg? Joe?"

Joe and Meg sighed, nearly in unison, and Meg turned her face toward the door, trying to sit up fully as she did so. "It's okay, Dave. Come in. I need you to re-clip me, anyway. The shower fucked it up."

Dave let himself in, coughing in the still-steamy room. "Jesus, Meg, what'd you do, try to boil something? Come out in the bedroom. I need you to lay down to fix this, anyway. Breakfast is here, and then we've got to go. Besides, it's gorgeous outside. Sunny. It's just what you need." He turned to eye Joe, looking him up and down, thinking as he did so. "Actually, it's just what you both need."


	18. Birthday Cake

More and more, their nights began and ended with dinner on a balcony, or, in colder cities, the hotel restaurant, then to the room for meandering conversation about everything and nothing, waiting to see who fell asleep first, waking in a tangled heap of limbs and kisses and half-shed clothing in the morning. Joe meant what he said; Meg deserved to be known, not just tossed onto a mattress and pounded through it. Not to mention, he wanted her to initiate that particular event. _'After everything she went through...I want her to know she's ready, not just going along with what I want. I can wait as long as I need to wait.'_

Which, as it turned out, wasn't as long as Joe thought it would be.

Meg, having returned to a more normal pattern of eating, not-smoking, and sleeping, felt infinitely better than she had in weeks prior. Good enough, in fact, to suggest an actual date-night to Joe, who was only too happy to indulge her – on her terms, of course.

"Casual, please? Or...low-key? I don't want you being mobbed by people, neither one of us should have to dress up, it doesn't have to be fancy or special or-"

Joe kissed her into silence. "Anything you want. Or don't want." Her want turned into a corner pub in an out-of-the-way neighborhood after a show. Not too far from the hotel but not too close to downtown, easily walkable in the pleasantly cool weather. It also served as a lovely excuse to stop for coffee and cookies on the way back, which slowed their walk and allowed Meg to kiss away his crumbs after every bite.

"Can I treat us to something from room service when we get back? You always get things for me, I want to do something nice for you."

"Meg..." Joe bristled at the idea; she lived off her intern's stipend. "We split everything tonight as it is, you really don't have to do anything else."

"Please?" She bounced in front of him, skipping backwards to block his steps. "I kinda had something picked out already anyway…"

Joe groaned, but had the damnedest time telling her no. "Baby...if it makes you happy...but I reserve the right to pay for it if it's overboard."

She swatted him. "You better not. I'm warning you." After a second's contemplation, she added, "Besides, part of it you can't send back." Joe raised an eyebrow and let his mind wander around the garden of possibilities.

The surprise, as it turned out, was that she knew the sommelier at the hotel, who comped her an amazing selection of wine, already delivered to their room when they returned.

"This is _not_ room service, this is liquid insanity. Meg, you're ridiculous!" Joe was stunned; some of the bottles were unbelievably expensive. "Hon, there's no way I'm going to-"

"Says the guy who bought a two-grand bottle of tequila as an apology?" Meg held up her hand dismissively. "Come on. I know the sommelier, and she did it as a favor. I asked for some passes for her family and she's coming to the next taping of Raw. You might have to give her a hug, though. Just a warning." Meg winked and smiled as she worked a cork slowly out of a bottle of zinfandel, wanting to give it time to breathe. "We can start with the white wines; she left them on ice and they don't need to breathe as much as the reds do, plus we just had dessert, so they'll go better with...what? What're you looking at?"

Joe had turned to look at her, really _look_ at her, and for the millionth time felt a creeping warmth spread across him. She bent over backwards for her friend so that she could bend over backwards for him, wanting to surprise him, make him feel _special_ – when had this happened?

"You, babygirl," He spoke through a smile, shrugging his shoulders in disbelief. "Just you. Pour for us? I don't know what I'm doing with wine."

"Me either, so this will be fun. Pinot grigiot to start." Meg swirled the glass, sipped, and giggled at herself. "Oh, look at me. All rough edges, and here I am with a wine glass like I'm something important. Here, try this." Joe couldn't help the grin on his face. Meg, his Meg, full of surprises. No doubt her friend was someone she met getting her LPN, or traveling; she drew people to her like moths to a flame. Sipping, it was floral, light, dry – not like bourbon, not at all – but delicious in its own right, and the flowery tones were so close to her rose scent it made him ache. "Good?"

"Not as good as you."

Meg blushed, hard. "Mmph. No sappy compliments." She opened the sliding glass door and walked out onto the balcony. "How many nights have started like this?" She gestured out over the downtown skyline, scanning bridges and brake lights.

"Quite a few, babygirl. Quite a few. Why, you bored?"

"Never. But I do have one more surprise for you. After this bottle of wine. Or maybe two. We'll see when you earn it." Meg winked devilishly at Joe, her words weighted with something indescribably lustful.

"You know I love a challenge."

"Oh, so that's why you took me on?" Meg feigned hurt. "And here I thought it was just for my winning personality and good looks."

"Well, you _are_ gorgeous. Personality...you take after Randy. You _sure_ you're not actually related?" Meg elbowed him gently, tiptoeing upward to kiss his shoulder, and Joe's rich laugh echoed out into the night.

* * *

They worked their way through bottle after bottle, wine going down like nectar, until Meg remembered she forgot her surprise. Popping up with a quick kiss, she trotted back into their room, making Joe swear to wait outside. _'Now or not at all, Meg. Either he wants it or he doesn't.'_ She slipped into the bathroom, stepped into the halter babydoll, and smoothed it over her stomach, fretting over imaginary wrinkles. Scrunching her nose at her reflection in the mirror, Meg moved a few unopened bottles, two glasses, and a corkscrew to the nightstand next to the bed, picked up her wineglass, and crept back to the balcony. Joe was lost in the view of the city, clearly expecting her jaunt indoors to take much longer than it did.

"Shit, maybe I should have fixed my hair or put some lipstick on. Looks like you're bored and I've got time, anyway." A sly smile played at Meg's face, and she made an exaggerated motion to turn back into the room, looking over her shoulder as she slowly spun.

Joe was briefly stunned into stillness; Meg was beautiful even on her worst of days, but in cerulean silk smoothed by the cool night air, she was ethereal. The lingerie highlighted the length of her legs, and she had kept the rest of herself deliciously uncomplicated. No makeup, simple, soft hair loose around her shoulders, and delicate rose perfume, exactly as he remembered from the night he first touched her.

"You look..." Joe trailed off, reaching for her and gently pulling her back to the balcony, "You're unreal." His arms closed around her, trapping her backwards against his chest. Meg used the position to her advantage, downing the last of her wine and moving the glass out of harm's way.

"I promise, I'm real. You feel me, don't you?" Her hands slid across his arms, pressing them tighter around her, using his grip as an excuse to undulate against him. "Don't you?" She turned in his arms, trying to read the expression on his face.

"I want to."

It was the sole encouragement Meg needed. She closed her eyes and leaned up into a kiss that was tentative at first, then eager, then desperate, her hands capturing his face, tangled in his hair, refusing to let him go. Joe was only too happy to be trapped, lifting Meg up around him, groaning into her mouth as he felt her legs close around his waist. He carried her into their room, kneeling at the foot of the bed, placing her on the edge, finally breaking their kiss. She was breathless, fingers tracing his cheekbones, jawline, finding the buttons of his shirt and freeing them one by one.

"Meg, tell me you want this."

"I always wanted this." She finished his buttons, pushed his shirt back and off of him, and kissed a trail down the front of his chest to the top edge of his pants. "And you're overdressed." Before she could reach for him, Joe caught her hands in his and pressed them to the bed.

"So are you, babygirl." His smile was gentle as he slid his hands away from hers and up her thighs, feeling for the strings of her panties, tugging at them til she lifted her hips. With one less piece of clothing between them, Joe felt his breath catch in his throat. He eased Meg back onto the bed, gently laying her down, watching the edge of the silk lingerie creep further upward across her legs. Kneeling, tentative, he nipped at Meg's inner thighs, watching her hands clutch the sheets on the bed as he moved further up.

"Joe, don't tease. I want to feel you." Meg snaked a leg over his shoulder, urging him forward. His tongue touched her, and she nearly unraveled underneath him, trying to arch forward, pulling him into her, riding each flick and hum, not noticing his hands climbing up to her hips until it was too late – he held her still with one while the other joined his mouth, fingers probing, circling, until she broke, calling his name like churchsong, not caring who heard.

Meg reached for him, vision still starry, shivering as she felt his hands under her lingerie, lifting it as he rose over her. She backpedalled up the bed, eyes, begging him to follow her. "You...still have too much on," she panted, "Come here." Joe crawled over her, leaning down to kiss her before allowing her to push him over, feeling the entirety of her skin against his chest before she sat back on her knees, affording him a complete view of her body, cream-blue in the moonlight. Meg leaned back, watching Joe slide his pants lower, until they were off and she was able to push his hands down to the bed. "My turn," Meg whispered, and without warning, she was on him, her tongue teasing and swirling as she knelt between his legs.

Gasping, Joe tried to reach for Meg, tried to arch off the bed, felt his fingers draw trails in the bedsheets and then in her hair, willing himself to breathe and hold out, to wait, hurtling toward the center of a brightly burning star. She locked eyes with him, changing tempo, first fast, then slow, hands blurring with tongue blurring with wave after wave of sensation building in knots across his stomach, then his thighs, then the bottom of his spine falling out from under him until Meg slowed and backed away, sitting up, panting, smiling, eyes glazed, stopping just before Joe couldn't stop himself.

"More?" Her question was a whisper, tender, "I want you to feel the way you make me feel."

"How?"

"Everything. Like the world is ending and it's beautiful."

Joe reached up for her, his hands sliding across her stomach, breasts, arms, up her neck, cheekbones, around her hips, tracing the contours of her collarbones, reaching around her to fingertip-dance across the spiderweb of small scars between her shoulderblades and linger. It was then Meg shuddered slightly, closing her eyes, tensed and waiting for...what, she didn't know. It was Joe's voice that grounded her, brought her back to their bed, anchored them to each other in their ocean.

"You told me your name that night, Magdalena. You trusted me then. Do you trust me now?"

The word came to her without pause. "Always."

Joe tensed his fingers over her shoulders, pressing firmly into her, then pulled her down on top of him. Wordlessly, he lifted her up to his lips, kissing as he went, first down her jawline, then her neck, stopping between her breasts and gently guiding her upright. "Then do this with me," he whispered, "Be with me."

Meg's face was suddenly peaceful, and she pressed her hands deeply against the broad plane of his chest. "Make me feel safe." Wordlessly, Joe rolled her under him, feeling himself settle heavily between her legs. Meg's breath hitched in her throat, waiting for him, bracing herself, suddenly and strangely tense.

"Babygirl, relax," Joe stroked the side of her face, brushing her hair back, murmuring into her neck, "It's me."

Meg closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling his weight above her, breathed in deeply, and pressed her hands along his back, feeling every muscle and ridge as he flexed and twitched under her, pausing as she neared the upward curve of his hips. _'Now or not at all, Meg. You want this, he wants this, you love him, you...what?'_ Before her thoughts raced further afield, Meg dug her fingers into the hollows of his back, pushing and pulling, Joe suddenly centered before either of them was fully aware of what was happening, both snapping face-forward into each other, muffling moaned epithets and wild howls, neither sure how to set a rhythm, both trying to settle into a pace that would satisfy the other.

"Meg...I..." Joe's words were torn and ragged, "I'm not going to…"

"I want to feel you, Joe. I want to feel you here. I need this." Her words were a plea, moaned, she was begging him, and he was desperate to rise to meet her pace. He wanted the moment to last, he wanted to finish now and hold her, he wanted to claim her over and over, and then he felt her hands steadying him, icy fingers wrapping around his face, forcing him to look at her.

"Joe...I'm here as long as you want me. As many times as you want me. I want to feel you."

He lifted her from the bed as he settled back on his knees, never separating from her, the soft gasping sounds from Meg telling him this was right, so right, even though he wasn't laying over her anymore, he still held her, protected her, pulling her upright and farther onto him, feeling something almost fluorescent coming over them both when she crawled her hands up his chest, to his shoulders, finally wrapping them around the back of his neck and drawing him to her mouth, and then her mouth to anything she could kiss, her hands to anything she could caress.

Meg felt something in her give way, finally make sense, that he wouldn't go any further without her taking them both there, that he was waiting as much as she was – _'And for what?' - _but once she knew, she finally forced back whatever was still holding her. She braced one knee into the bed and wrapped her other as much around him as she could, riding him slowly at first, watching for some glimpse of understanding on his face, feeling his lips on hers for some hint that he wanted her to keep going, do more, move differently, and then a moan that seemed to start months ago boiled up out of him.

After the first roll of Meg's hips, Joe had to force himself to keep breathing, and then she didn't stop moving and he finally _believed_, knew beyond his body, he could feel everything she said about needing him – he needed her the same.

There was nothing left for Joe to do beyond cede control to Meg, hold her and let her ride out her storm, tell her how beautiful she was, that she felt like heaven, rise up to meet her when he could and find small curves and angles to grasp and tease when she eased away enough for his fingers to find temporary hold on her sweat-slick skin. Joe could feel the world tighten around him, hear Meg's breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and he knew he was right behind her near the edge of their precipice. Nagging at the back of his mind was his dream – always, that dream – but not the violent end, the beginning, where it was caramel-sweet and rose-snow, just as she was now, where she had asked him to wait, to come with her, to be together.

"Baby, we," His words were on the verge of incoherence, "I want," Joe felt a familiar pulling lightness begin somewhere in the bottom of his stomach and begged himself to wait, "I…"

"I know," Meg breathed, "I know." She gently trailed her fingernails up his thighs, his stomach, pressed her palms into his chest – Joe inhaled sharply, felt how icy her hands were as they moved from his chest to his neck one last time – and then Meg suddenly, deliciously, slowed from what was a galloping, urgent pace to one as rich as velvet, thick as honey, and after one kiss, then two, three slides of her hips, he felt everything and nothing at all. Their names were call-and-response song to each other in the moment, and Joe lost himself as the room melted away. He dug his fingers into her, afraid she might slip from his grasp the way the walls appeared to slip from the foundation of the building.

After a moment, an hour – Joe didn't know which – he could feel Meg's small frame curl in his lap, her face pressed to the crook of his neck, singing quietly to herself, again playing with the damp ends of his hair, tracing the lines of his tattoo absentmindedly, rocking an occasional lazy figure eight with her hips and smiling at the feeling of him. The air in the room had chilled considerably – _'That's just like us, leave the balcony open,' – _and he watched gooseflesh rise and fall on Meg's back as he breathed down her spine.

"Lay with me, babygirl?" Joe was already reaching behind him for the edge of the blanket with one hand, refusing to let go of Meg with the other.

"If you promise we can do that again." Meg's smile was sly as she leaned back with him, letting him roll over her, adjusting her blankets and arranging the pillows.

"As many times as you want," Joe murmured as he leaned down, "But I won't promise they'll all be like that." He punctuated his thoughts with a kiss. "The rest will all be better."


	19. Dirty Bombs

Many thanks to my loyal readers, loyal reviewers, everyone who's followed and favorited, all my lovely lurkers (please do review; it's like catnip for me, and I do try to send messages and notes)

And for those of you who were wondering if I fell off the face of the earth – my job has a ridiculous schedule and I get stuck working sixteen-hour days. If I don't update for a few days, I will typically do a multi-chapter dump. Just stick with me, it's about to get crazy in here.

* * *

"Earnings reports are great for accountants. Why they send this shit to me is a mystery." Joe flipped the pages of the fiscal report as though he was shaking a fan.

Meg smiled. "Because you're a fiscally responsible independent contractor with the WWE, and you want to be aware of what's going on in the company? Here, let me look at it."

"She cooks, she cleans, she's great in bed, and she's a closet accountant, too." Joe tossed Meg the booklet, smiling as she caught it out of the air and propped her feet up on the exam table in the triage bay. Even Dave couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Er, Dave, you didn't hear that." Joe's cheeks reddened slightly; he had the damnedest time keeping bedroom jokes to an appropriate place and time.

"No kidding, Joe. I already know she can't cook for shit." Meg glowered, and Dave choked his laughter down after his statement. He knew full-well that Meg was more than capable in the kitchen.

Without reading it further, Meg whipped the booklet at Dave's head, narrowly missing him. "Jerk. Anyway," she bounced up out of her seat and kissed Joe on the cheek, "I've got to hit the stockroom before we get started. You be careful out there, okay? I don't want to see you back here unless it's to tell me you want company for your post-show shower." The door clicked gently shut behind her as she left.

Dave, meanwhile, had picked up the booklet from the floor and was scanning it, his frown deepening after every page. Joe had picked up on his expression and sat silently, waiting.

"You know...these numbers are bad. Really bad. If Meg actually _looked_ at it, she would have told you the same thing."

"Bad in what way? My checks are still clearing, so are yours."

"Yeah, but the network numbers aren't what the company thought they would be. Subscriptions are low. And you saw how many people got themselves 'future-endeavored' in the past few weeks. It's rough out there if corporate is trying to save money through contract cutting."

"So...what are you trying to say?" Joe was thoroughly confused. "It's not like I'm going to be hurting for cash any time soon. Meg's not exactly a high-maintenance girlfriend, either. She gets pissy when she asks me for change for the vending machines. Shit, she hits thrift stores in between shows even if I tell her I'll spring for _actual_ new clothes for her."

"No, it's not that." Dave rubbed the back of his neck, stared at the pattern on the floor tile, sighed heavily, and then repeated the motions while he thought. "I've...been here long enough to know that when cuts come…"

"Nah," Joe waved his hands dismissively, "NXT is solid right now, TnA is losing its ass, and we're drawing talent in from Japan, ROH, you name it. We're gonna be fine. Once we get network licensing in the UK, we're set. The numbers will pick up."

"Well, look at you. Allow me to give you more credit than I previously did." Dave crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow; apparently Joe had been giving the matter some thought.

"See? Big man not dumb." Joe winked at the medic, stretched a bit, and ambled out of the room to prep for his promo. "I'll catch up with you later. If you see Meg before I do, ask her to wait here for me? The locker area gets too chaotic."

"No problem. Keep it safe out there."

Joe nodded and jogged off, leaving Dave holding his shareholder's booklet. "You know, Joe, what I was trying to say," Dave announced to the empty air, "Was that when cuts come, they come deep. Hold close what you hold dear."

* * *

Weeks passed in silence from corporate, in bliss between Meg and Joe. With a bridge across their last chasm, it was becoming more and more impossible for them to keep their hands off of each other. Both had agreed they should be discreet at shows, if for no other reason than professional propriety. Meg didn't want to be accused of favoritism, and Joe didn't want her falling victim to rumors about getting her job on her back. The more time passed, however, the more they both found it difficult to keep their word. At one point, after a particularly athletic match, Meg slid the sign on the triage bay door to "In Use," bolted it, and told Joe to lay back on the exam table. Her rationale was, if he was sweaty, she may as well be sweaty, too – they could conserve on shower water that way.

Meg was also experiencing a problem of an entirely different variety – she had actual feelings, deep feelings, for Joe, and while she never struggled for words, she didn't know how to verbalize the things her body already knew how to say. She saw him and the world fell away. He touched her and the breath flew from her body. When he was gone, her mind jumbled, her body ached, her focus dissolved. Luckily for them both, those times of absence were exceedingly rare and typically for a short-lived charity event.

On those nights, Meg would stay with Randy, not leaving the hotel room, cuddling a pint of ice cream and a book, barely focusing on the latter and letting the former melt into soup. Her mind drifted to fingers, kisses, nips and tongues, until her phone blared and she pounced on it, desperate to hear Joe's voice. Their conversations were always a series of giggles, whispers, tiny escaped moans, breathy sighs, until finally Meg fell asleep. Then, Randy would lift her phone from her hand, dimming the screen, knowing Joe had gone back to the event floor and leaving Meg alone with her thoughts and a dial tone. Every time, Randy would smile and lay a blanket over her, happy to see her happy, and not regretting in the least the grief he had given her at the outset of their relationship.

Together, they felt invincible. Meg had gone with Joe to Tampa, hesitantly the first time, each invitation becoming easier, simpler, until she could finally claim drawers and closet racks of her own without feeling as though she was intruding.

_'Intruding into what, Meg? You _are_ my what.' _Joe always managed to blend his doses of annoyance with amusement until they were palatable to them both. Meg wished she could drag the confidence she felt in all other aspects of her life into her relationship; it was the one place she felt in constant dread of breathing the wrong way and tumbling her house of cards.

She adopted his city, ran on the beach with him, made love with him in the sand just outside his home, cooked dinner for him on the rare nights he let her near the kitchen, felt positively domesticated and absolutely blissful. Joe understood Meg felt she came from nowhere, but she nightly regaled him with stories of the dozens of places she had lived, to the point he could taste the food, feel the rain, hear the music, and practically be there with her. He wanted to tell her to come home, be home – stay with him, he was in love, and yet – he was afraid. Meg never pushed him for anything. Everything was at his pace – how and when she was involved in his life, his family, his world, and he loved her for it – but there was that damned word again. He knew she had new and old wounds, and he knew they held fragile scars.

* * *

Eventually, Joe decided the best course of action was to go to the one person who would understand love perfectly, despite having a love/hate relationship with him: Randy. Phone in one hand, bottles of tequila and bourbon in the other, Joe sent a text to Randy after kissing Meg goodbye after a show. She was leaving on a triage call with Dave and expected to be gone for hours – something about an orbital bone and a knee impact.

_"Hey asshole. Any chance you want to listen to me whine?"_

_"Depends. You bringing a cheese plate?"_

_"Oldest joke in the book, dude. Tequila's on me, though."_

_"Room 1486. It better be as good as last time. Minus the disaster."_

Joe threw on a pair of track pants and a decently-shabby shirt for his short trek down the hall, bottles clinking together gently as he moved. Randy swung the door open as Joe approached, prompting him to roll his eyes.

"What, can you smell it?"

"You're not exactly quiet coming down the hall. You stomp when something's on your mind." He waited for Joe to open his bottle before offering the neck of his up. "But, whatever's on your mind, cheers!" He tapped the bottles together, and drank greedily.

"Cheers...for what?"

"You getting a push, Meg finally being happy, my storyline not sucking ass for once," Randy paused for another drink, "And, for you being smart enough to come to me for advice on...whatever you need advice on. So, fire away. The guru. Is. Hee-yah!" Randy waved his hands, mocking John, laughing wryly to himself.

"Yeah, someone's been drinking _just _a bit before I got here. What's up with you?" Joe squinted at Randy, trying to make sense of his behavior.

"Generally good mood, for all of the aforementioned reasons."

"Liar. Randy, I've known you long enough to smell your bullshit a mile away."

"Fine." Randy settled heavily on the end of his bed. "You and I have...had issues. But it's all brotherly shit. I trust you. All of the shit I just said is true, and it _is_ good. But...the financials came out today, and man, it's _not _looking good. Not at all. Nope. Nuh-uh."

"So you're in trouble?"

"Not me, no, but a lot of the newer guys are. You know how it is when you first come up. You see dollar signs, you go a little crazy."

Joe felt a metallic twinge fling itself up his spine. "What are you getting at?"

"I dunno. Probably nothing. Just that I know some people are gonna be in trouble, and money's gonna be tight for everyone. I don't want people coming to us like we're the almighty Bank of the WWE, or asking us to make sure they keep their jobs, and then thinking we're assholes for saying no. I had the asshole rep, I don't want it back." _'Meg would be smiling right now. All the shit she dug me out of...she's the reason I don't have that rep anymore.'_

At that, Joe felt that metallic twinge again. "Let's just see how it all plays out. Don't waste good booze on bad ideas that haven't happened yet. Besides, I need you just sober enough to help me think." Joe clapped Randy on the back, trying to be encouraging. "I need help with Meg."

"What's our lady up to this time?" Randy took another giant swallow of tequila, and Joe winced.

"Our? I never said I was sharing."

"Whatever. She was mine first, remember? Shoveling me out of my bullshit and all that?" Randy winked.

"Yeah, yeah. But seriously...I don't know how to..." Joe paused, chewed over the words, rolled shapes in his mouth with his tongue, and tried to push Randy's oddly possessive statement from his mind. "Shit, I can't even figure it out now."

"You love her." Randy's words were simple.

"Yeah. But you make it sound easy."

"Well...it is, and it isn't. She's going to be scared shitless. Meg's first impulse is always to run. She's always beat herself up, never thinks she's good enough, blames herself...lemme shut up."

"No, you need to tell me," Joe pressed, "Because I don't know how to ask her, and when I try I fuck up, and I don't get the answers I need because I don't ask the questions I want to."

"No, I _don't_ need to tell you." Randy's tone was immediately hostile. "_She_ needs to tell you, and _you_ need to figure out how to talk. That's _your_ problem, and you shouldn't be dropping the L-word until you _know_ how to talk to her. That's not fair to either one of you."

"Fucking logical drunk." Joe snorted, shaking his head and smiling.

Shrugging, Randy looked at Joe with equal measures amusement and pity. "So you tell her halfway."

"The fuck does that mean?" Joe looked thoroughly confused.

"You tell her you don't want to screw up being in love with her by not knowing how to be in love with her. The talking parts, the understanding parts, whatever. But tell her your own way. Or, shit, I don't even know if that would work."

"Hey, Randy?" Joe tried a complete 180, "Why _does_ she always come down so hard on herself? I always have to tell her it's okay, she's okay, everything's fine, stop worrying...and I get where I wish she'd just _do it_ already, so I don't have to keep telling her all the time."

Randy looked up at him without moving his head, an expression that usually meant something dangerous was about to follow. "You try a decade-plus of Jackson keeping the floor moving underneath you, and tell me how you feel. Never knowing which end was up. Never having one place to live, or money to pay for it. How the fuck is it that I know this shit, and _you_, Mr. I'm In Love With Her, you don't know this shit?" _'Oh, come on, Orton. You know why you know. How much time do you spend with her? Try, "Every free second," for starters. At least til you came along, Joe.'_

Joe wilted, and then, in its own drunkenly logical sort of way, an idea occurred to him. "Maybe...maybe she didn't want me to know because she didn't want it to be a part of us. Like a clean slate kind of deal? A do-over? Where her past didn't follow her around anymore, maybe? It's hard not to feel what you feel, but if she just didn't tell me certain things, it's like they never happened."

Randy snorted. "Yeah, until it all falls down. She's going to feel what she feels until all the reasons shake out. Like I said, she didn't have the worst past in the world, but it wasn't easy, either. And you better get right with that before you start throwing all your 'I love you' shit around, because she's going to run like fuck-all-else once you do. If you're not ready to grab her and pin her down and fight the hardest fight you can imagine-"

"- How'd you get to know her?" Joe cut it, not sure where Randy was going, or even if he was talking to him anymore, and not himself.

"Because I just ask shit. Am I not the most direct person you know?" A smug look crossed Randy's drunkenly-thick face. _'Not gonna ask how I get away with it? Good. Meg just...trusts me.'_

"True."

"And I better not ever again hear you say that it gets old having to tell her it's going to be okay. Ever. Or I'm gonna make good on that punch you in the nuts deal."

"You know I said that to get a rise out of you." Trying for humor, Joe felt like he had to give Randy a reason to calm down, like some sort of nerve had been struck.

Flatly, Randy fired back. "Rise granted."

Testing his theory, Joe pushed a bit harder at Randy, trying to figure out what it was that hadn't been said. "You sure you don't have a thing for Meg?"

Quietly, and with a large measure of resignation, Randy drank deeply before replying. "Oh, I do. You got me, there. But I know better. She's yours. And by the time I realized it, I was with someone else. Not much to do about it."

It was Joe's turn to offer up a dangerous look. "Not much to do at all. Right."

"Relax, tiger. She's off-limits. I get it."

Knowing there was no safe place to go with that line of conversation, Joe switched his train of thought. "So I have to tell Meg I'm in love with her by telling her I don't want to mess up being in love with her by not knowing her well enough to be in love with her, even though we sleep together, she stays at my house – shit, she's basically moved in...this sounds like a bad idea."

"Then you just have to tell her and hope that the rest of it comes together. You're never going to have a 'best time' to tell her you love her. You're just going to have a 'close enough to right' and then you've got to swing for the fences. If it works, it works. If not, then I hope the sex was good, because she's gone." _'I'm an asshole, but I hope she's gone. Doesn't mean anything for me, but I don't want her to be anything for you.'_

"So reassuring. I knew I could count on you." Joe rolled his eyes and huffed; Randy was giving him all manner of advice that was equally useful and useless.

"Shut the fuck up and start drinking."

"I have time." Joe shrugged, as though he could schedule his drunkenness around Meg's predictability. "She'll call when she's on her way back, and she won't mind if I'm with you. Shit, she'll come by for a shot or two herself."

Randy smiled, trying his best not to look overly-enthused at the idea. _'There's my girl. Gotta make sure it's shots of my tequila, though. That bourbon is...okay...but mine is better.'_

* * *

The next morning found Meg and Joe both swatting for their phones, trying desperately to answer their text alerts, both puzzling at why they'd receive messages at the same time at a ridiculously early hour.

"Shareholder, contractor, and employee emergency meeting? The fuck is all this?" Joe growled at his phone. "Whatever. C'mere, babygirl. As long as we're awake..."


	20. Absconders

Thanks for sticking with me. Pay periods are supposed to be 80 hours; I've worked 120 in my most recent. Show me some love; I'm about to give you all a chapter dump.

And yes, it's the resolution to the cliffie. You're welcome. For now.

(Also, for the record, let me say that I'm *shocked* nobody gave me any crap about Randy's little honesty-moment in the last chapter.)

* * *

"What time _did _we wake up?" Meg groaned as she stretched, thighs aching, reaching for her phone for the second time that morning.

"The first time?" Joe stretched, but refused to lift his arm from her. "Three in the morning. So it's what, five-thirty now?"

"And the meeting's downstairs at – oh, fuck it. Let's just shower." Meg giggled as Joe scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder as he sat up, and sauntered toward the bathroom. "I'll grab a towel, but only one. And I'm not sharing!" Meg poked his ribs cheekily, earning a gentle slap on the ass before Joe sat her down on the counter and busied himself setting the shower temperature.

"Any chance I can convince you to give it up?"

"Give _what_ up?" The wink she shot at Joe was toe-curling.

Joe smirked and chuckled, then smiled and laughed, nudging the bathroom door closed, letting Meg pull him between her legs on the counter before he lifted her into the shower with him.

* * *

Their wet hair and tandem soap-scent was a giveaway as to where they had been and what they had been up to, but Meg had at least swept her hair up into a bun with only a few loose tendrils framing her face. Joe had given up on even as much as working an elastic through his, opting to scruff a towel through it and run downstairs, where Randy had been kind enough to save him a seat – though he did punch Joe in the arm before allowing him access to it. Meg made sure to walk into the meeting after Joe and hang toward the back, opting to stand along the wall by Dave, near the other interns, roadies, techs, and support staff, trying desperately not to call any more attention to herself and Joe than had already happened by their walking in around the same time. She helped herself to an informational packet from the table nearest the entrance, flipped to the leader page, and waited for the banker-esque speaker at the podium to begin. _'Here we go, Mr. Banker. Start the bleeding.'_

"Good morning. It's early, you're all very busy, and I don't want to take up any more time than is necessary. As I go through each department, you may leave afterward unless you have any further questions."

_'Well, that's direct. Which means it's going to be bad.'_

Mr. Banker aimed a small remote at a projector, which displayed a few header slides before finally spitting up a bar graph that sank lower and lower as it cycled through several repetitions of "Q1" through "Q4". He cleared his throat loudly.

"As you can see, until we have access to a significant portion of the European market, specifically the United Kingdom, we cannot expect financial gains to offset our expenditures. Therefore, your employer will unfortunately experience downsizing across several departments."

Meg felt herself melt halfway into the wall. Joe's head snapped back towards her; Randy had to slam his elbow into Joe's side to get him to turn back around.

"_Not now, Joe, and NOT here. Let the guy finish, and do NOT lose your shit in here,"_ Randy's voice was a low growl, directly into Joe's ear. _"You two are discreet, and you need to keep it that way. You don't even know what's gonna happen, so fucking relax."_ For Meg's part, she refused to make eye contact with Joe, knowing she wouldn't be able to choke down the howl she had pinned in her throat. She forced herself to tune back in to the presentation, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"...in any event, we will now go department by department. Performers and/or independent contractors first. If you are currently under contract with more than five years of service or under a contract for more than $250,000, you will experience no changes."

Several people got up to leave. _'Well, bippy for you. It'd be nice if you stayed to support your coworkers, you know.' _Meg gritted her teeth. Randy and Joe sat still, even though both could have left. Dave passed his cup of coffee from one hand to the other.

"...If you are currently under contract with less than five years of service or under a contract for less than $250,000, your contract terms are all now renegotiable, but no contracts will be canceled. You may be reassigned to any division currently under ownership by the parent company. Your contracts may experience what is referred to as "shrink" but you will not be downsized – er, fired. Further explanations are available in the printed materials on the tables at the exits. Next, lighting and sound..."

_'Get to the part where you fire me. Go on. I need to go pack.'_ Meg started to work at the edges of her fingernails, not daring to look up at Joe and Randy, if they were even still there. They were, Randy's posture relaxed despite mentally picturing bludgeoning Mr. Banker to death with the projector if he fired Meg; Joe physically shaking though he was thinking now was the time – he would simply walk up to Meg, tell her he loved her, and she was to pack her things and come home to him.

"Joe, c'mon." Randy whispered, loud enough to break Joe from his stupor, but not loud enough to be noticeable by anyone else. "C'mon. We're almost the only pros left. We have to go now or it looks too obvious. We can get a coffee and wait in the lobby. I'll text Dave."

Mr. Banker carried on, the Shakespearean drama playing out in front of him clearly unnoticed. "Finally, we have all stipend-funded programs, internships, and grant-based pay programs. We'll address these individually, so bear with me." Dave squeezed Meg's hand gently; he had heard some ten-odd minutes ago that the direct medical program would continue fully funded due to concerns with concussions and an interest in the prevention of serious injury within the company. He would be fine. Now, it was up to fate to see if he would be keeping Meg.

"No," Joe whispered, harshly, "No fucking way am I walking out on her."

"Joe, we have to go _now._ Staying here doesn't make any sense. You're going to be answering too many questions if they _do_ let her go. Do you want to make it harder for her than it needs to be?"

"Randy, I _don't _care!" Joe's voice came out far louder than he intended, and he ducked down in his chair to try to hide from his own sound. _'Joe, you are a complete fucking idiot. Get up. Go. Now.' _He dropped his head down quickly, rubbed his hands over his face, and stalked out the doors with Randy a single step behind him. Meg's face registered absolute shock as they bolted from the room, and the start of a keening wail began to erupt from her. Dave grabbed her arm and turned her to face him, waving his phone in her face.

_Randy's number was up on the screen, a short text displayed in a bubble._ _'Had to get him out. In lobby. Not leaving.'_ Meg knew she should have felt better, but all she felt was roiling nausea.

Meg's breathing remained on the brink of hysterics. She would always have Dave, whether or not she had a job. He always protected her, dragged her out from under whatever pile of garbage she'd buried herself in – but this was more. She lived through this, or she lost Joe, which felt like losing the only blood she'd ever had in her body. Meg didn't have the words to keep it, either. She could sweat it, contort it into a thousand positions, sing his name like the word would keep her alive, watch her fingers seek out his skin as though they were programmed, parasitic, desperate – but she couldn't ask him. Couldn't tell him. And now, couldn't control a fucking thing about it.

"Medical. Programs to be continued as currently funded. Pyrotechnical. Programs to be continued as curently funded. Aestheticians: Programs to be downsized by one position. Audio-visual. Programs to be downsized by two positions. Creative writing. All current positions to be terminated, department to be restaffed. Food service..."

Meg froze, took a step forward, looked at Dave – who simply pointed to the door – and Meg flew. Out of the room, down the hall, she could smell coffee and caramel, and hoped Joe picked out something sweet for her. She skidded around the corner into the main lobby, scanned the expansive seating area, and forced herself to slow down. _'Calm down! Calm the fuck down. Make it look like an emergency, because everyone is looking at you like you're a goddamn idiot.' _Meg fumbled for her triage phone and tried to look immensely busy, followed by completely relieved. Slowly, she walked toward Randy and Joe, carefully looking left and right to be sure she was no longer the focus of her own spastic actions.

* * *

Joe, for his part, was rapidly bouncing both legs up and down on his toes under the table, poking at everything and nothing on his phone, spinning a waxy coffee cup in circles, drumming his thumbs on the rim.

"Meg, for fuck's sake, say something that's going to make him stop before I pour the fucking coffee on his head." Randy was still imagining Mr. Banker in all sorts of torturous positions; he needed to hear Meg's words as much as Joe did but did a much better job of hiding it.

Gently, Meg trapped both of Joe's hands under hers, on top of the coffee cup. "I'm still yours."

"Meg, that was never in question." Joe refused to meet her eyes.

"Joe, look at me." Meg's voice was firm. "Look up."

Reluctantly, afraid if he met her eyes he would lose the little control he had left, Joe leaned his head back just enough to see her face.

"I'm staying. Employed. Here. With you."

Randy was the first one to lean over the table and drag Meg into a rib-crushing hug. _"I knew it," _he whispered, _"I knew it would be fine. You two go talk, okay? He needs...just go talk. I'll see you later. Hope you like your coffee."_ Randy grabbed his phone from the table and headed toward the checkout desk and their collective pile of luggage, letting them have their moment together.

Joe continued to look at her as she stood over him, look almost through her, feeling searing heat on his palms from the trapped coffee steam, searing cold on the backs of his hands from her perpetually frozen skin. The dual sensations sent a full-body shiver through him that shook him out of his stupor, and he blinked, hard.

"Joe...is that okay? That I'm staying?" Meg scooted around the corner of the table and perched on the edge of Randy's chair, her anxiety ratcheting up several notches with each passing second of silence.

Joe exhaled, slowly lifted his hands from the lid of the coffee cup, and rolled them under hers, capturing them tightly. "I'm sorry. Meg...Meg, come here." He pulled her across her chair, their knees bumping under the table. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what's right or wrong, I know I'm fucking up left and right, I know I felt like I was dying the longer I sat there with no answers." He pulled her fingers up to his lips and refused to let go. _'Fuck it. Fuck whoever sees us, and fuck whoever says anything.'_ He smiled against her hands.

"So yes," Joe murmured, "It's more than 'okay' that you're staying. It's the only answer that was going to work. It's the only answer that was going to keep me there, too. It's...Meg, I don't know what I'm saying. I know what I'm saying, but I don't know how to -"

"I was terrified, Joe, and I love you too." Meg leaned in, over their hands, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, eliciting some coos from nearby tables. "And apparently, we're not as subtle as we thought we were." She smiled, and slid one hand out from under his, toward the coffee cup. "And," she continued, "Thank you for ruining a cup for coffee for me. Mocha caramel extra-whip is not a manly beverage order." She never saw Joe shake his head at her coffee, then smile at Randy and mouth a thank-you.


	21. Manic, Panic, Erratic, Erotic

Finally, they were able to be a couple. Whatever kind of couple it was when you were ducking pyrotechnical explosions, trying not to trip on hundreds of miles of cables, and watching your significant other take chair shots that weren't technically chair shots while you felt up without technically feeling up men who weren't wearing much more than Speedos.

But, it didn't change things. Strangely, neither did saying they loved each other. _'Well,'_ Meg thought, _'I said it. He said it as best he could, and that's all I need.'_ Whatever they were supposed to be, they were. It never dulled or staled, it aged and improved, became richer and deeper, they were almost symbiotic. Surprisingly, rather than the backlash they feared, nearly the entire company was supportive. Meg's work continued to be brilliantly on-point; Joe redoubled his efforts and was richly rewarded with bigger and bigger pushes both on-screen and off. Those who had issues with their chemistry were smart enough to keep their grumbles low and at a distance.

* * *

Late spring gave way to early summer, touring continued, the heat of the season built, attendance soared, and the charity events kicked into high gear. Meg faltered, tried her best to keep quiet and not let her sudden loneliness show; Joe tried his best not to push her into anything she wasn't ready for. Both of them were abysmal at any sort of emotional communication that didn't involve a near-crisis situation; Meg was at least aware enough to realize something had to be done, but didn't know where to start. Dave suggested asking to go with Joe to an event; Randy suggested telling Joe she _was _going with him to an event. Meg tugged at the edges of her confusion and waited until her mind threw forth an idea that landed in the middle ground. So many of the events were red carpet, photographer-heavy, late-night, and money-thick; she worried they'd be out of her comfort zone. Gala after gala passed, Joe always in his tuxedo, Meg always in one of Joe's old t-shirts, borrowed as pajamas.

* * *

That night, in their hotel suite, Joe stood patiently while Meg adjusted his tie and smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. It was no different than the dozens of other gala-nights that had preceded it. The air conditioner droned in the background; the fridge in the wetbar hummed along an octave lower, dropping ice cubes into its reservoir as it went. Meg smiled and tried to make it look genuine while she fussed over him, tucking each lock of his hair neatly into a tight chignon, making sure his shoes were free of scuffs, his cufflinks were turned correctly – that he was photo-ready.

"I think you're set, handsome." Meg pressed a light kiss to the palm of Joe's hand. "Keep that with you tonight, okay?"

"I couldn't forget you if I tried, babygirl. No worries."

"I never worry. Just come back to me. And if I'm not here, I'm out on a triage call. Now, scoot. You're going to miss your limo." Meg walked with Joe to the door, holding his hand til the last possible second, hesitating before letting him go and closing the door slowly behind him.

"Well," she whispered to herself as she rested her head against the door, "You signed up for it. And you love him. Just roll with it, Meg. Stop being such a baby. If you're that lonely, say something. Otherwise, get your book and be quiet." Shaking her head firmly, she walked to the wetbar, poured an obscene amount of Joe's whiskey into a glass, and headed to their bed.

* * *

Preparing to exit the limousine, Joe took a second to shake his head and brace himself for the photographers. He never minded going alone; it was simple enough for him to stand as a statue, smile blankly, think of what was waiting for him when he returned to his hotel room, and get on with the evening, stale canapes and all. _'We just need to go home for a bit. Be with each other.'_

Then, suddenly, the realization that he was standing in the middle of Pointless Gala Number Twelve thinking about "home" in the context of "we" hit Joe, and he turned to leave, knowing full well where he should be – and it wasn't under a chandelier with a cocktail napkin in his hand. _'When did I turn into my ex-fiance? What the fuck am I doing? And she's by herself, hoping I actually care.'_ Flash bulbs popped as he strode off the carpet toward an aide, asking for a car to be called, his departure prompt and pointed, but something was demanding he go. Whatever it was, he knew it meant _now._

* * *

Meg, folding the hem of one of Joe's t-shirts back and forth over her fingers as she curled in bed, reached feverishly for sleep and found none coming. Nights like this were always long; she could count on him being out til at least three in the morning. She could predict his routine once he came back – kissing her before quietly showering, and promptly falling asleep afterward with an arm over her. He never smelled like sex or perfume, never came back drunk, just always with a vague hint of cigarette and stale ballroom air. Meg was glad for him to be rid of it before he came to bed; it was proof that at times their employer had a greater claim to him than she did, and her heart was bitter for it.

All those things explained her rationale for hurling both her book and her glass at Joe's face as he banged through their hotel room door four hours earlier than expected; she was scared witless and half-falling from the bed, tangled in his shirt and most of the sheets. Joe lost no momentum in his charge toward the bed, slapping the book harmlessly to the side from midair, ducking the glass as it shattered behind him, pushing Meg back and up onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket as he went, graceful and graceless, full of regret and hungry at the same time.

Arms still flying, Meg hadn't slowed her attempts at escape. Nothing had registered other than full-body terror, and she could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline, convinced it was Jackson come to remind her who she belonged to. Slowing just long enough to be sure his presence had been fully understood, Joe brushed his hand along the side of her face, down her neck, drawing a firm line along the edge of her jaw, leaning to rest his forehead against hers.

"I was so wrong, Meg. So wrong to leave you for all this gallery dress-up bullshit. No more. I promise." He could feel her pulse where his hand rested against her neck, and hoped it was rapid from need and understanding, not fear.

"Baby, it was always okay," Meg breathed. Her mind had caught up to the rest of the world, and Joe's presence, while no less confusing, was at least less terrifying. Her shirt had ridden up dangerously; Joe was debating which direction to let his hand not occupied with her neck roam. "I understood – and I need you to know something."

Joe froze. He suddenly felt like he was going to throw up. Every muscle in his body tensed; his memory slammed back to that whiskey-drenched room with his ex on top of him, drowning in that sickly sweet perfume she wore, feeling her riding him while he was locked in that God-awful dream, beating Meg til the words left her. Now, here, awake, he was bracing for what Meg words would leave Meg next – that _she_ was riding someone while he was gone, sorry sweetheart, just needed you to know, better luck next time, so long and thanks for understanding.

"Joe...stop it. Please, stop thinking like that. I'm not her." Meg could see the look on his face, could feel his hand flex heavily against her neck, never tightening beyond the edge of control, but tense and ready. She had no idea if he was capable of what his palm threatened, didn't want to find out, and understood even less what his unspoken threat stemmed from. Struggling, she tried again. "I would never. _Never._ Don't even think that. I need you to know – what you felt, whatever that thing was that pushed you – I was never angry. I love you."

Slowly, Joe angled down to kiss her from where he had been resting against her forehead. _'Stupid, Joe. She wouldn't – couldn't – do that to you.'_ He kissed her knowing he had to make up for his silent accusation, for terrorizing her, for the threat of his hand, for always leaving and never staying, for not knowing where the accusation came from in the first place, then never saying he loved her – _'And have I ever said that to you? Do I even really show you?'_ He pressed a finger to her lips. "Tonight...let me. Just...let me." He guided her into a seated position on the bed, then took his time undressing in front of her, watching her as she watched him. Her eyes held a mix of interest and curiosity, and she looked at him as though he were baring something very different, very raw, to her for the first time.

"Just wait," he murmured, closing the distance between them and bending close to her ear, "Stay here." Joe padded through the room, turning off lights, opening curtains and windows, letting the mechanical chill in the air be replaced by the sticky summer humidity and the opalescent glow of moonlight that always seemed to complement the temperature of her skin. By the time he returned to the bed and climbed over her, she was panting. True to his word, he let her do nothing. The few times she tried to move for him, he simply stilled her in his arms, overpowering her and kissing her until she relented and gave herself over to the experience he was offering her. Some pieces were physical, others emotional, all of them carried forward on waves of a slow but unrelenting chant from Joe, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl, a song, a plea, and at their peak together, his simple declaration: I love you.

* * *

Distantly, a thumping registered in the back of Joe's mind the next morning. Rolling away from Meg, he considered the possibility that she might have been awake before him and ordered room service. _'No, she would have expected it and been at the door. What is this? At seven in the morning?'_ Fumbling for anything to cover his lower half and coming up only with boxer-briefs, the pounding became more insistent – and then suddenly, terrifying.

"Process server! Magdalena...uh...Nechayev! I need a signature!"

Joe spun on his heels, only to see Meg already sitting bolt-upright in bed, clutching a sheet to her chest while she groped for the t-shirt she had lost in the tangle of the bed last night. If it was possible for her to be more pale, she had somehow done so as she woke and was becoming more ghostly by the second. Her hands were shaking, and she tripped over her feet as she stutter-stepped toward the door, bumping Joe as she grabbed her wallet and opened the door.

"Uh...here. Here's my ID. Where do I...oh, here." Meg took the pen from the server, shakily signed the receipt, and opened the large envelope. The process server blatantly looked her over until Joe materialized in the doorway. Meg stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope and pressed the glue flap closed.

"And do _you_ mind telling me what this is about?" Joe's hands landed on Meg's shoulders, warm and steadying, and she leaned back into him without hesitation as he directed a withering look at the small man who had disturbed their sleep.

The server quickly adjusted the position of his eyes and the front of his pants, and cleared his throat. "We aren't told the contents, sir. The sender is...let me see..." He flipped through several pages of a pad of carbon sheets, trying desperately to find anything that would prolong his life as well as his opportunity to ogle.

"Joe..." Meg's voice was watery, shattered, and she half-turned her face toward him. "This was too good for too long. Too quiet."

Joe draped one arm around her front while Meg dug her fingers into the envelope, scraping them across the thick manila paper. He pulled her back into their room, pushing their door shut as they went. Meg started a low, wild laugh as she moved away from the center of the room and toward the balcony. Not knowing what she thinking or doing, Joe darted ahead of her and slammed the sliding door shut, spinning to face her.

"Meg, open the goddamned envelope. Now." Torn between fear and frustration, Joe snapped at her. He was lost; apparently this sort of situation was all normal for her, but he had no idea what was going on other than that his girlfriend was walking blindly toward a very tall balcony with what appeared to be very bad news in her hands. _'Is this because of last night? I scared her, so she's scaring me?'_

"You know what my last name associates with? Historically? Dissent. There's some horrid – well, I guess that depends on whose side you were on – anyway, some Russian revolutionary with the same last name who was famous for destroying the politicos he didn't agree with by doing whatever was necessary. As violent, as evil as it needed to be, he did it."

"Meg, what the fuck. Open the envelope." _'Baby, please, start making sense.'_

"I should have told you sooner, because I believe in kismet." She waved the envelope in the air, ticking off each thought with a flick of her wrist, pacing as she spoke – but thankfully, away from the balcony doors. "The medallion, my name – both of them, really, first and last – constantly running from something. Maybe you don't believe in it, but I do. So I knew this was too good to last for very long."

Joe pushed her down onto the foot of the bed; she sprang back up, still waving the envelope, still pacing. "This – we, us – we weren't supposed to _be_, Joe. We were fighting it all the way. You stayed engaged for _so_ long. I skated by a layoff, barely. And now I'm about to destroy us. Kismet, kismet."

"You aren't making sense, Meg. Stop. Slow down or stop, but open the envelope. Babygirl, we can fix this, but I have to know what's going on. You aren't making sense. What happened? Tell me what happened. Everything was fine last night. We were fine. I mean, I know I scared you, I'm sorry, but...this...I love you, remember?" Joe was beginning to feel a cold sweat creep over him; Meg had never just rambled like this. She was sarcastic, not manic and metaphysical. This wasn't like her, and Joe was beginning to wonder if, before he made it to the door, the process server had slipped Meg some sort of drug. _'Right. Because that's completely logical. Step one, get the fucking envelope.'_

Still rambling and waving the envelope, Meg didn't realize how quickly Joe had closed the distance between them, locking one hand around her wrist to slow her gestures, and snatching the envelope from her with the other. Her eyes were confused, but she said nothing – just rubbed her wrist where he'd locked his hand around it.

"Meg, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. But you're scaring me, and I don't know what else to do. Babygirl, tell me what's in here. Please."

A strange, crooked smile suddenly tore across Meg's face. "Jackson's in there, baby. In here, in there, in me. Just like he never left at all. So now it's my turn. The whore of dissent, right? And violence? Who destroys things? What's in a name? I love you so much, Joe, so much beyond anything, beyond everything...and I'm not going to let this ruin you. Me, whatever. Ruin you, no."

She lunged at Joe, kissed him even though he had no idea how to return a kiss to this strange thing in his Meg's body. _'Caramel and roses and cold skin and what the everloving Christ is going on in here, what did I do? I love her, who is this? What did I do? She was fine last night, what the fuck just happened to us?'_

Suddenly, she was throwing things in her suitcase, yammering into her phone about taxis and tickets, pushing his hands away from her, Joe then sobbing into his phone for _anyone _to come to their room to help him. Meg was slapping at Randy's hands, then Dave's, all of them trying to decipher the legalese of the notice in the envelope Joe had almost forgotten to open. All of them, trying to force her to stay though every touch made her scream protests and epithets, literally shriek and scream until hotel security showed up, along with assistants and aides for the show, none of them having any idea what to do, until Dave finally cornered her by the bathroom.

"You're _running_." He was half-asking, half-scolding.

"I'm saving him. Why the fuck doesn't _anyone_ see that I'm _saving _him?" Meg's exasperation tore through her voice, hot and ragged, and she had no idea why everyone seemed so against her.

"Because you're killing him. This whole dance you're doing is to the gallows. Why the fuck don't _you_ see that?"

The room phone rang; Randy slammed it down after directing the front desk to send away the taxi Meg had called. Meg quickly dialed the front desk from her cell and requested the car wait for her. Randy called again; Meg countered by throwing the marble tissue holder from the bathroom at his head. Crouching, marveling at the divot in the wall, Randy backed away from the phone. Meg called the front desk again, apologized, and asked the driver to be held.

"Dave, I'm not going to live up to my name. I am not the ruiner. I love him too much."

"Meg, you dumb fucking cunt, if you do this, you are _exactly_ what your name is!" Dave grabbed her by the shoulders, and she twisted back away from him, spinning out toward the door.

"No faith in me at all, Dave. No faith."

"I want to slap the shit out of you. I want to have you fucking committed so you can't do this to him or Randy or yourself. You're so goddamned _stupid_ sometimes. You're walking away from a _life_ here. Joe can't even _look_ at you right now. He told me what happened last night. If you walk away from him right now, you're telling him he's nothing. Worthless. Meg, he _loves_ you. This is _everything_ to him."

He pointed to where Joe sat, holding the thick legal document in his lap, staring at it, seeing it without reading a single word on it and refusing to look at Meg. She only managed a shrug. "I have to go. He knows I love him. If he doesn't know it now, then he never knew it. Faith, Dave. Have faith."

With that, without another word, Meg lifted her small suitcase, grabbed her wallet and phone, and was out the door, narrowly escaping Dave's last attempt at grabbing her. Randy started to charge after her, but stopped a few steps before the door, throwing his hands in the air and screaming out a frustration that started a decade before he met Meg, had steeped in his ex-wife and in a thousand suddenly realized and unspoken things about Meg. Joe felt the papers fall from his hands, slide down his lap, shiver across the floor to pool in a dry, dusty expanse, and then in a sick reenactment of how they had met, he felt nothing at all.

* * *

Dave called both Randy and Joe off as ill to the house show, eventually organized the paperwork from the floor back into a packet, explained to them that it all came from Jackson, something about a civil suit against Meg for damages, slander, assault, and it was there Joe blanked out – the notion that Meg had somehow assaulted Jackson, after Joe dug enough glass out of Meg's back to build a coffee cup – until Dave came to the dollar figure Jackson was seeking, and then Joe snapped back into his tattered reality. The sum was more money than Meg would see in a lifetime, and he immediately recognized the endgame: Jackson would force Meg out, one way or another. If she stayed, in her mind it would be like bleeding Joe dry, like having their relationship purchased. She decided she would go away, which would be bleeding Joe dry of a completely different substance.

Go away where, who knew. Financially, she could only afford to get to a handful of places and live in a scattering fewer. There was no family; friends were everywhere and anywhere – all reliable, but all impossible to find. Other options, all three men refused to consider.

Later, Joe was told he stood up and began to punch hole after hole into the drywall while screaming something about telling her too late; it was only after he walked to the glass doors of the balcony – their balcony, the place Meg first gave herself to him, first came to him cerulean blue and frigid-hot in the moonlight – that Randy and Dave tackled him to the ground, Randy wrapping his arms around Joe's neck in every form of a Nelson hold he could muster until Joe finally, thankfully, lost consciousness, fists still clenched, ready for a fight that wouldn't stop but somehow also never came.


	22. Laissez Le Bon Temps Rouler, Sorta

Meg snatched the medallion off her neck as soon as she got to the front desk, asking for an envelope and getting a thousand assurances from the concierge it would be immediately delivered to Joe's room. Tearing a thick piece of hotel stationery from the pads positioned around the checkout counter, Meg began to write:

_'Always remember I love you. Not past, but present, and this is for us, even if there is no more 'us' because of this. I know – it makes no sense. Please, just have faith. You have my heart. Always. I won't expect you to wait, I won't expect you to understand. My only hope is that you know, always know, how much I love you – and that I always will. I promise.'_

Folding the paper into a packet around the medallion, kissing the outside of the packet, and stuffing it into the envelope, Meg paused to inhale shakily. _'This is either going to work, spectacularly, or this is going to get me killed. Jackson, babe, it's all up to you. Here's hoping you're as stupid a fuck as I remember. I just have to keep you away from here.'_ She licked the flap of the envelope, pressed it shut, rubbed the paper across her throat to pick up as much rose perfume as possible, and then gave it to the concierge behind the desk. "Please?" Meg began. She was surprised at how throaty her voice had become, but was determined to make clear that the envelope had to make it back upstairs. Perhaps shocked by her tone, perhaps nudged by something at work in the universe, the concierge extended his hand and took the envelope. Without missing a step, he spun on his heels, exited the desk, and headed directly to the elevators.

Meg didn't realize she was still holding her breath until she nearly collapsed against the desk.

* * *

Sliding into the cab, flipping her phone end-for-end between her fingers, Meg's tears came slowly and silently through a fake and syrup-thick smile. While she knew what she was doing was dangerous – could result in her having nothing to come back to, could cost her every real friendship she had, had definitely cost her a job, could even be lethal – it was the only exit she saw. She had to keep Jackson from coming to find her; instead, she would go to him. Lost in thought, she continued to twirl her phone. _'Baby, you know me. I love you, and this is not as crazy as you think. I promise. I have never lied to you on a promise. And Randy, you better pick up when I call you on a burner.'_ Rolling down the window as far as she could, she hurled her phone out into traffic, watching it explode under the wheels of an extremely unforgiving semi. The taxi driver merely chuckled – in his mind, it was all the drama of a pissy hotel breakup. All he had to do was go to the airport and collect a tip, problem solved.

Anticipating that one of her trio of men would be intelligent enough to call the front desk and demand the name of the cab company in order to follow her in her perceived foolishness, Meg simply picked another cab company at random from the airport. She had long ago memorized one of Jackson's credit card numbers, dialed it into an ATM, demanded a ridiculously large cash advance, and then prayed he would be expecting her.

_'You'll come back to me, you stupid slut. When you need dick, or money, or both. I give it two weeks before I see you on your knees in front of me. Go fuck yourself.'_

Jackson's words ricocheted around Meg's mind – at least she could pride herself on the fact that it had been months and not weeks since her last encounter with him.

_'Sweet dreams, whore. I'm not done with you yet.'_

Involuntarily, Meg shuddered before getting into her next cab. She was headed away from the airport and back into the city, towards a train depot on the shabby end of town. The train would go west and then from there, south. Then, back towards the center of almost all of her stories to Joe – a chancy move, she knew – but it was also where Jackson would be most likely to look for her. Using his card to take out a huge cash advance would at least tell him she had gotten his message and was on the move – it didn't tell him her precise destination. She had to hope Jackson would look for her, and Joe wouldn't.

* * *

Jackson's smile was positively sadistic. The second his phone announced a card usage alert, he seized upon it and flipped through the screens.

"Come home, kitten. You have a lot of things to explain to me. If you make me work to find you, I'm not going to be happy." Checking his watch, guessing at the hours he had left to wait if she came directly to him, he stretched and watched the rain slide down the windows.

Meg wasn't going to be so kind as to make a direct stop. She wanted him angry. She wanted him unraveling, just as she was. The more violent the better, in fact, if she could hold herself together long enough to make the rest of the pieces come together.

* * *

Meg settled into a stiff seat on the train, opting for dry and sleep-deprived eyes rather than chance the nightmares a sleeper cabin could bring to her. Plus, buying the more expensive option meant potentially using Jackson's card again, in order to keep up appearances while in the sleeper cabin, and she didn't want to do that. He had one clue; that was enough. As it was, she was heading directly west; Topeka was her next stop. Then, south to anything in Texas via bus, then a rental car back east to Louisiana. Her nurse's license was valid and current there; she could find a job, save her money, and bide her time. Or at least, she could pray the universe would let her be ready for Jackson when he came.

It took her six days to make her way to New Orleans; another two before she was able to find lodging over a dive bar, exchanging serving and drink mixing for a room with a creaking mattress and small window that let in the hum of cicadas at night. As to getting a proper job with her LPN, that could wait. Her soul ached, and she had no urge to bring herself further out into the world than the three foot depth of an oak bar counter allowed her. Here, she was insulated from humanity behind a seltzer gun and row after row of alcohol bottles. To say she fell back into her habits of smoking and drinking would be an understatement; Meg dove back into them as though they would sustain her like food and water. Here, in a city that knew no limits, there was always a reason to beget an excuse, and Meg needed neither. She was making Jackson's job easier, and she invited his ruin into her life. Or, so she hoped it looked.

Occasionally, Meg would venture out into daylight, purchasing a croissant here or there, a small box of caramels, even single-stem flowers to remind herself that things could live without roots, even if it was only for a short while.

They, too, died.

Days stretched to weeks, months, and eventually she found herself thinking less and less of Jackson, wondering if the whole thing had been a ploy to simply drive her away from Joe, if that had truly been his goal – not to take her back for himself, but to force _her_ to destroy the one gem in her life – all without his actually lifting a finger. The thought gutted her, so she pushed it back, along with memories of Joe, his touch, the cerulean negligee buried at the bottom of the suitcase she hadn't ever bothered to empty, and she realized she had died without ever ceasing to breathe. She didn't know what she was running from or to, and she couldn't or wouldn't remember. Holding herself together was too much, she was burnt by her cigarette-ends; her glues were actually waxes and had melted under her own heat. _'Hold together. None of this will work if you can't make it look real enough to hold together.'_

* * *

Talk in the bar began to shift from complaints about late-August heat to excitement that the owner finally pulled enough cash to install a single satellite television. Much to Meg's dismay, wrestling was a perennial favorite. She couldn't make herself scarce – working made tips, tips made room rent – so she simply made herself blind, keeping her back to everything but the customers and going selectively deaf. That is, until late August, when a wail so recognizable and painful came from the miniscule, shrill speakers that Meg whipped around, dropping an entire tray's worth of beer on the floor, foam and glass exploding everywhere, just in time to see Colby's terrified eyes fill the screen as the camera jittered from him, to a panting, spittle-heaving Joe, back to a still-frozen Colby.

"What the fuck did I just miss?" Meg knew something was wrong, tremendously, terribly wrong, but hadn't seen enough to know who broke character or broke bones.

"My goddamned beer order, Meg." A regular knitted his eyebrows at her, unamused at the sudden shower of Bud Lite. "What got in to you?"

* * *

"You need to get your shit together. I know she left. We _all _know she left. You still have to be, you know, _safe _to work with_._ Is that going to happen, or do I need to find a mid-carder to get the job done?" Colby was pushing Joe's buttons dangerously and intentionally, and a crowd was gathering with the intent of saving the smaller man from his own mouth. Randy was feverishly pushing his way to the front, hoping to get there fast enough to make the whole scene look partially scripted and partially based on friendship.

"I'm going to be fine. The question is, are you?" Joe was snarling, daring Colby to keep going.

"That depends on whether or not you can, I don't know, carry your three lines of the segment or not." Colby's voice snapped out across the room, and Joe began to lunge forward.

Serendipity prevailed; Randy knocked Colby backwards gracefully enough to make it look like his intent was to block Joe and not to send Colby to the ground. "Save it, guys. Out there, not back here. Joe, you come with me." Randy guided Joe into the nearest chair he could find, even though it was in catering, and placed him firmly down into a seat.

"You have to _stop_ doing this shit. She called me. She called Dave. She just keeps saying we have to trust her right now, that she's gonna make Jackson go away."

Joe's head hung nearly between his knees, feet tapping up and down in a staccato rhythm, long hair dripping water down the sides of his boots, hands clasped around his shins. Randy could see every muscle in his arms tense, clench, relax, release, repeat, again and again, and knew the worst was yet to come from Joe tonight in terms of performance interaction.

"And she won't fucking call _me_. Fuck, she said she doesn't want me to call, remember? _You _told _me_."

"I know, man. I know. It's not like any of us know where she is, or we'd tell you. She said she's afraid to call you because you'll be angry that it's been so long. She's a mess right now, man, and-" Randy suddenly caught himself, watching Joe's head snap upward like it was on a string.

"What do you mean _a mess?_" His hands clenched into the front of Randy's hoodie, dragging him in even closer, in a way that could have been romantic if it hadn't been so potentially lethal.

"Let the _fuck_ go of me." Randy's tone was no less hostile; this wasn't the time or the place for the conversation and could destroy any hope Joe had for getting through the show.

"I will when you tell me what's wrong with her."

Randy sighed. "Same shit as before you two actually figured out what you were doing. She's drinking too much. Not sleeping. Smoking. Not eating. She'll snap out of it. She's just waiting for Jackson to come out of the woodwork so she can deal with him. And she's afraid she has nothing to come back to." Joe's eyes became completely blank, and his grip on Randy relaxed. He stayed silent, and Randy cleared his throat quietly. "Well? Does she have anything to come back to? Or is that done?"

* * *

The night continued as planned, segment after segment, with Joe and Colby walking wide circles around each other backstage, until it was time for their match, which centered around an in-character attempt by Colby to injure Joe using cinderblocks, which would – since creative's budget had been slashed in the financial cuts – be largely a repeat of the plot arc that had happened a few shows prior.

Randy's words collided with Colby's words collided with Meg's letter collided with Joe's heart as he made his way out to the ring, and he felt his temper ignite, flare, explode – he couldn't remember what he was saying, how hard he was hitting, pushing, what he even picked up – _'Throw the cinderblock at the ringpost, Joe, don't lose your job, aim at least a little high' _– but the _ping _he heard meant the throw was at least a little hard. The scream he heard meant Colby was a little pissed off. The roar from the crowd meant they were loving it at least a little bit. The screams coming from somewhere in the pit of his stomach were the first real emotion he had allowed himself in the weeks since Meg left, and if he knew she was standing in the middle of a dive bar in New Orleans, screaming along with him, then he would have known that no, they were nowhere near done with each other.

And nowhere near done with Jackson, either.


	23. A Call To Order

It took Randy _hours_ to find Joe after the show. Talent relations, security, and Colby were all looking for him, too, so Randy couldn't really fault Joe's desire to lay low and deal with the management later. _'I'm honestly surprised he wasn't looking for Colby's bitch ass just to have something to break. At least he was keeping out of trouble.'_

An hour into his search, Randy was ready to give up and head back to the hotel. Texting back and forth with Dave to make sure they were covering equal ground around the arena, Randy was preparing to fire off an "I quit looking" and go to Dave's car when a tall sliver of light from a door at the end of a long hall caught his eye. Barely visible unless you happened to pass a stack of crates at just the right angle, the door had to be propped by someone who didn't want to be caught, bothered, or otherwise molested.

Texting Dave to meet him by the unused loading docks, Randy edged the door open and cautiously poked his head out under the security light. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he saw nothing except a large, lone black pickup parked like a four-wheeled island far out in the lot, near enough to a light for its owner to see what he was doing, far enough to not clearly see who the owner was. That is, unless you were a complete idiot who didn't recognize a six-foot-four man with ridiculously long hair who just happened to be hanging around after a WWE show.

"Jackpot." Randy whispered to himself, and leaned against the wall to wait for Dave, sending one more text for him to come back with alcohol. _'And judging by the amount of kicking I hear, a LOT of alcohol.'_

* * *

All three men sat or paced quietly around the pickup, various six-packs of beer stacked in its bed between them, like some sort of tailgate gone wrong, none willing to admit they'd all let it go too far, all been keeping secrets.

"So." Dave cleared his throat, peeling the label off his beer bottle as he spoke, "Who wants to go first?"

"At least you picked a decent truck and a nice city to pull this shit, Joe." Randy mused. "Anaheim has decent weather. If you did this in East Buttfuck, North Dakota, I'd fucking shoot you. By the way, hi, my name is Randy, and I'm here because I'm an asshole who let two of my only friends do something incredibly stupid, instead of stopping them. That means you and Meg, Joe."

Joe, who had climbed into the back of the truck to fish for another beer, launched his full bottle across the parking lot once Randy finished speaking, watching it explode once it impacted the pavement. Randy and Dave had to admit, it was pretty spectacular. Thanks to college football, the thing had amazing distance, and when it hit the ground it was a bit like wet, sudsy fireworks, all shimmering glass and white, crawling ooze.

Joe never looked up. He simply opened another beer and began to alternate between drinking it and staring into it. "She never...calls me." His voice was barely above a whisper. "But she calls all of you. So...you know things. All I have is this letter. She didn't even use my name." He put his beer down and pulled Meg's hotel stationary, worn and crumpled, from the pocket of his track pants, and gently shook the medallion out into his hand. "Maybe it wasn't even for me, you know? It says she's coming back, but...what do I do with that? I don't even know who she was when she left. How did she hide that from me? That...mess...that she was inside." Joe's voice never rose, but wavered the longer he spoke. He held the wad of paper and medallion out to Randy. "So, you tell me. What is all this supposed to mean? That I hold my breath and hope I get Normal Meg back, and not Crazy Meg? That we never get any more surprise mail and she never snaps again? I ended my engagement for this? Fuck, I don't know, maybe she called and told one of _you._"

Randy struggled to keep his hands around the neck of his beer bottle, leaving Dave to reach up over the wall of the pickup and take the paper and medallion from Joe, knowing full well that if Randy let go of his hands now, it would be full-out war in a too-small space.

"Joe," Dave began, slowly, "She's only called us to tell us she's alive. Working. She's not doing well, that much is obvious. Meg's trying to do this to keep Jackson away from you. You said that yourself the day she left – we all said it. She knew if she stayed Jackson would use her to get to you. Meg never wanted to be responsible for taking your career away from you. Nobody's saying she the _right thing_ -"

"No shit, Dave!" Joe's voice roared out into the darkness, echoed off the walls, rousted gulls and pigeons from their nests in the eaves of the arena. "But what _is_ this? What did she do? What...did she...do?" His words began to heave into something he was trying desperately to control. "And why...why aren't you...either of you...why won't she let me call her?" His eyes were wild, and he snatched his beer back into his hands, gripping the neck so hard his hands shook.

"Joe, Meg asked not to talk to you. You know that." Dave was quiet, reaching up to place a hand on Joe's arm. "She's scared if she does, she'll break down. She keeps saying she has to stay til she solves the problem."

Randy sat on the gate of the pickup, sliding back to lean against the wall of the cab, opening another beer as he moved back to face the two men. "Do you know how much I blame myself? I chased her to the door, but I didn't grab her. If I did, she wasn't going anywhere. But I didn't. I _trusted _her. And obviously that was stupid. Now she's in God knows where doing God knows what, waiting for him to pounce on her. It _sounds_ like she's back down south, but who knows."

Shoulders tensed, Joe he forced his head to stay still. _'There. Now you know. New Orleans. Every story she ever told you, she always wanted to go home. Her home. What next?' _"Okay. Both of you. Everything you know. Now." _'Now they tell me what happened next.'_

Randy and Dave shifted uncomfortably, with Randy speaking first, still feeling the ire from Joe's earlier flippant comment about Meg being a mess. "Dude, it doesn't work like that. We can't tell you what we don't know. And she promised you-"

Lunging forward across the bed of the truck, Joe caught Randy's neck under his forearm, pinning him to the glass of the cab. Dave froze, knowing there was nothing he could do at this point other let the two idiots sort it out themselves.

"Whatever the fuck her promise was, it's _worthless_. She's not here now, is she? She's probably off fucking her ex, because she got what she wanted from me. You said "South," so good for her. She probably went to New Orleans, and from what she told me, she's probably living in some trashy, rat-infested home in the bottoms, or flats, or downs, or whatever the fuck they call that shit when it floods. If she's as drunk and high as you two say, Jackson's just dropping by for a fuck and leaving her on a dirty mattress, which is right where she belongs. I was gonna give that bitch _everything._ Fuck. Her."

Randy did the only thing he could think to do while pinned under Joe's arm, which was to spit. He caught Joe in the eye, and then swung as hard as he could, kneeing upward as he went, having the advantage of every angle but a complete lack of oxygen to work with. Joe, keening in pain, fell backward, grabbing at his crotch, a wet blur across one eye and a red blur across the other. Randy didn't bother continuing his assault; Joe wasn't getting back up any time soon. Besides, his phone was ringing with an unknown number.

"Meggie. Hey." He was gasping, but knew now wasn't the time to worry her.

"Y'ok, Ran? Y'soun' out of breath?"

"And you sound drunk, so we're even." He paused to open another beer and step around Joe's prone figure before climbing down into the open space of the parking lot. "Dave says hi. He's a little busy, though. Joe...fell down." Dave had popped up into the bed of the pickup, shaking his head at Randy as he passed. _'Really, spit? So. Gross.' _Dave whispered as he slid by Randy.

"I saw th' thing wi'th' concrete whatsama...thing. Bad."

"Meg, hon, come home. I'm not mad at you. Dave's not mad at you." Desperation crept into Randy's voice, but he didn't fight it away.

"Nope. Real close t'Jackson. Gotta get done w'him. Joe hates me anyway."

"What? Why would you say that?"

"He di'n't ans'er my calls. S'now I don' wanna talk t'him." Meg waved her hands while she talked, trying to convince herself her words were logical and true.

Perplexed, Randy continued. "Okay, wait. You told us not to let him call you, but you were trying to call him?"

Meg retched, and Randy winced. "Yeah. I...use those...nummers."

"Meggie...Okay. Wait. You _were _trying to call him?" The night was becoming an unhinged merry-go-round, up and down faster and faster, Joe trying to decapitate Colby with a concrete block, then fighting Randy while arguably drunk, his spiteful, hate-filled rant against Meg, and now Meg saying she never really meant for Joe to...not call her?

"Yeah. An' if he called me, I couldn' ans'er. I ditch th' phones."

Suddenly it all clicked for Randy. She never meant for him and Dave to tell Joe he _couldn't_ ever call her, just that he couldn't call back on the numbers she was using. Burner phones. They were all single-use numbers, calling cards, gas station phones, or worse, ran the risk of ringing in Jackson's presence once she found him. Every number that had ever popped up on Randy's phone as private, blocked, or unknown had been answered by him, every time. He was thinking, praying it would be Meg, and he was right – but Joe hadn't ever made the connection, or had been too angry to care. He had been ignoring the calls the whole time she was gone, and she hadn't left voicemail, since there would be no callback number to give safely. Meg gave up, asking Dave and Randy to tell Joe no, no calls, no more.

"Oh my God, Meg. Meg. He didn't know. Meg, he didn't know!"

A digital voice cut on the line, giving a two minute warning. Joe was still rolling from his back to his side and back again, clutching at his crotch, wiping blood from his eye where Randy had opened a shallow cut, pushing Dave's hands away, refusing anything that even vaguely resembled help.

"Nah, Ran, he's jus' done. I fucked up, but I still gotta stop Jackson. He's never gonna be done w'me elsewise. Tell Dave I love 'im. Miss you, Ran. Love you. Have faith, 'kay?"

The call cut off, despite Randy yelling no again and again into the phone.

Randy stabbed the 'End Call' button on the front of his phone, even though it was completely useless. He spun in half a circle, glared at Joe, spun back again, stuffed his phone in the pocket of his track pants, and then snatched it out again. He ran his hands over his head, stomped toward Joe, then back, repeating the maneuvers like a sort of frenetic, rage-filled dance until he finally broke and closed the distance between himself and Joe in a few quick steps, hauling Joe up to a sitting position on the gate of the truck, half by his shirt, half by his hair.

"You," Randy snarled, cranking Joe's head backwards, forcing eye contact, "You motherfucking idiot. That was Meg. On my phone. Talking to _me._ Do you want to know what she said, Joe?"

Joe had the distinct feeling he was going to hear all about it whether or not he had any interest, so he simply narrowed his eyes and waited.

"How many calls have you gotten, asshole, that were from blocked numbers? Or unavailable numbers? Private numbers? Hm? Answer me, you piece of shit!" Randy shook him by the shirt-hair combination he had locked into his hands, and though Dave reached in to try to loosen Randy's grasp, it was futile. "You've gotten _dozens_ of those calls. You know how I know? Because I've gotten dozens of those calls. So has Dave. Every fucking one of those calls was from Meg! She's using burner phones, you dumbfuck! When she told us not to have you call her back, it didn't make sense – except that you _couldn't_ call back her burners. You _never_ picked up, did you?"

At that, the corner of Joe's mouth twitched, and Randy seized on that hint of emotion, using it to tear into Joe, going for what he knew would hurt, becoming icily quiet. "She thought you didn't _want_ to talk to her. And you _can't return a call to a fucking burner phone! _Remind me again why you always came to me for help with her, Joe. You obviously don't want her. You threw her away. She ran because she didn't want to destroy everything _you_ built for _yourself_, not because it was about _her."_

Randy's face cracked into the same off-kilter, sick smile that Joe remembered on Meg's face the day she left, and both men felt the merry-go-round pick up speed. Joe hadn't moved to make Randy release his grip, and Randy had actually started to sway Joe from side to side in a sort of perverse dance of recollection and appraisal. "_Y_ou actually had the balls to sit there and give me a lecture, remember? You said, 'Wah wah Meg belongs to me, hands off, hands off,' - you remember that night, don't you - and that was the _same_ night you told me you were tired of her being insecure. You know what? I should have told you to fuck yourself. Because _look_ at _you _– who's insecure?"

Randy threw Joe backwards, stomping first away from him, then towards him again, before throwing his hands up around his own head. "Which one of us ever loved her, Joe?" Dave, stock-still through the entire scene, flinched as Randy suddenly charged into view in front of him. "Give me the medallion. I don't care about the paper, she didn't write that to me. But I want the medallion. It doesn't mean anything to him."

Dave's eyes slid to Joe, who hadn't moved from his perch on the tailgate, looking for some sort of sign that this would or wouldn't be the start of another war. After waiting what felt like an eternity, Dave slowly shook the small oval and its chain out from the crumpled chunk of stationery. It looked like a tiny metal snowflake against the desert-colored expanse of Randy's palm, and he closed his hand slowly around its cold surface.

Without turning to look at Joe, Randy spoke one last time. "Call me when you've got your head out of your ass. Until then, I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I don't fucking know you backstage, I don't know you in the hotel, I don't want to hear shit from shit about _shit_ dealing with you. If it's a choice between you or Meg, I'm picking her _every_ time. And as for _you_," Randy paused, pointing at Dave, "_You're_ riding with me, so I suggest you start walking." Randy shook out his shoulders, pocketed Meg's necklace, and walked back across the parking lot, not waiting for Dave to make up his mind about following, and at the same time, knowing full well he would.


	24. Road Tripping

Jackson fumed when he saw the second cash advance on his card, but this time, he had a destination. A place to go find his girl.

"And of course, kitten, you're always dumb enough – or smart enough – to come home. It would have been preferable if you'd come right to me, but I suppose I can drive a bit." He punched up a hotel reservation in the French Quarter, knowing it would be far away from anything Meg had picked to live in or near, which was just fine with him. Meg had always described her preferred housing as earthy. She came from people she described as 'salt,' whatever the fuck that meant, and he came from people who described salt as flaked, exotic, imported, and on chocolate-coated truffles, thank you.

Jackson prowled his bedroom as he packed, having no real pattern as he moved, packing a dress shirt here, a pair of slacks there, hurling a picture frame into a wall as the mood struck him. "You turned me into such a disaster, Meg," he murmured, "But that's about to be all over. You're coming home soon, and we can fix all this. Pick up right where we left off." Jackson bent down to lift the photograph out of the broken glass and wood of the frame, shaking off the shards as he moved. "I was happy when we took this," he remarked.

In the photograph, Meg was pushing herself away from his chest, turning her head, her face contorted into a pucker that could have been construed as teasing avoidance. To an outsider, the photo was playful and lighthearted, a couple engaged in horseplay. To anyone who knew Jackson and Meg, she was trying desperately to force Jackson away from her, her face a grimace of revulsion. "_Happy," _Jackson emphasized, "And you _took_ all that, you stupid bitch." Clicking the locks on his suitcase, he drummed his fingers on its edge. "Time to take a few things back, Meg."

* * *

Joe, having traded the expanse of the parking lot for the linear drudge of the highway, went over and over the night in his mind. Colby, fine, whatever. They'd never been _that_ close, and nearly taking his head off would be good for ratings. _'Besides. I felt...something. Finally. And it felt good.' _But later, with Randy and Dave, none of that felt right. Joe's eyes trailed up to the rear view mirror, where any other time Meg's medallion would be dancing from the bottom of necklace as he drove. Now, her – his – medallion was with Randy, wherever he was. _'Maybe she was right. She's ruined my friendship with him, she's taken my focus completely off my work, she destroys things. If she's gone, she's gone. I need to let it be. My fiancee wasn't right for me – and neither is Meg.'_ Pressing the gas pedal down even harder, Joe continued driving, planning on getting a hotel in a town closer to their next venue. He knew he was trying to get away from his own mind, as it was feeding him ideas he wasn't quite sure he was ready to believe, things he knew he shouldn't have said. _'No, you can't say let it be. Why did you keep that note if you wanted her to be gone?'_

Joe pounded the steering wheel as he drove, feeling the slightest twinge low in his stomach. Whether it was from Randy's reaction in the parking lot, driving too much, drinking, stress, who knew. He didn't care. Everything had come apart around him, and all Joe could think about were the two slender, cold hands that, in the past, had pieced everything back together for him.

* * *

Randy drove in silence in his SUV, Meg's necklace dangling from one hand as he noodled from lane to lane, far ahead of Joe en route to the next city. Dave, in the passenger seat, stifled repeated yawns while staring at the screen of his phone, waiting.

"She's not gonna call tonight." Randy's voice broke the tension, low and tired. "She was shitfaced when she talked to me. Said she was close to Jackson and...well, you know. Tried calling Joe, he didn't answer, more bullshit."

"Tried calling Joe?" Dave looked genuinely confused. "Look...no offense, but I wasn't paying much attention to conversation. I was more trying to get you not to snap Mop-Hair's head off."

Randy ducked his head, rubbing one hand around his face and behind his neck, trying to organize his thoughts along with Meg's conversation, all while feeling far more of the beer than was safe to be driving under. Giving up, he pulled off to the shoulder and turned to face Dave, who was already rummaging around his triage bag.

"Here. Water, sugar tabs, plain crackers, mint gum, and please don't puke on me. It's a big SUV, but not _that_ big."

Randy, who hadn't realized his hands were shaking as badly as they were, couldn't get the crackers unwrapped or the gum out of the packet. Dave ended up opening the bottle of water, and was surprised at how much Randy spilled trying to get it to his mouth. "You're scared, not sick."

Dave passed the gum over to Randy, who half-smiled at the wrapper before putting it in the console. _'Meg used to make those into paper cranes.' _"Fucking right I'm scared."

"Look...I know you care about her...but is there something else I need to know about?"

Randy bunched her necklace up into his hand. "Bad timing. That's all. Move on."

Dave pressed his eyes shut tightly. "Is 'stubborn' a disease with you three? Jesus Christ. Fine, fine. So she was calling Joe? Then I don't get it. Why was she telling us to make sure he _didn't_ call?"

"She didn't have callback numbers. They're all private or blocked when they show up, remember? Call cards, burner phones, that kind of shit? Joe wasn't picking up her calls, probably because of how they displayed, and if he called her but she found Jackson and it rang in front of him, it'd be bad. She gave up after a while, I guess. That was when she told us to make sure he didn't bother."

Dave was silent for a second, seemed to grow tighter, smaller, more tense as he pressed himself into the seat. "That _asshole_." Dave's voice exploded into the interior of the SUV. "She would have come home by now if he just...he could have told her...I don't know! Anything!"

"I know, man. I know." Randy's eyes were fixed on her necklace in his palm. "And now I think we're gonna put this on a corpse, if we even find her at all." He shook his hands out one at a time, passing the necklace between them, and then restarted the SUV. "Let's just go. Wherever she is, she is. She'll call tomorrow."

"Let's hope you're right." Dave's voice held no optimism.

* * *

Jackson threw his suitcase down on the floor, tossing a fifty-dollar bill dismissively at the busboy behind him who lugged a trunk with no small degree of effort. "Right. There." Jackson pointed to the foot of the bed. "Then leave."

The busboy pursed his lips together, pushed out a toneless, "Merci," and backed out of the room. "Mon dieu. Asshole," he muttered quietly once he was a goodly distance from the room. "Et mon dieu, a trunk full of merde besides. I need a drink." Thankfully, the end of his shift was near and he could head to his favorite dive in the bottoms, and to his favorite bartender.

If only Jackson knew how close he really was to Meg.

Taking out a local phone directory and making short work of crossing out the places that were too expensive, too formal, too close to high-end neighborhoods, too close to the airport or anywhere else she might run into someone she knew, too touristy, anything attached to a strip club, and anything not "low" enough – Jackson was left with a list of twenty or so different bars to cover in his time in New Orleans. Official bars, anyway. He'd have to...encourage...the locals to give up the names of spots that weren't officially sanctioned or were after-hours, just to be sure he turned every rock to look for her.

He'd be sure she knew he was looking for her, too. Sometimes, that was all it took. "Maybe, kitten, you'll just show up on my doorstep. Like the stray you are." Jackson phoned for a rental car. "And, you're too much fucking driving, Meg. _Far_ too much fucking driving."

* * *

Meg ran between tables, dodged behind the bar, kept herself busy all night, and slugged down shot after shot, all gifts from her regulars, until the floor started to float underneath her. _'Perfect,' _she thought, _'This is just what I need in case he shows up. It can't be much longer. He knows I'm here, I just ran him for two large. It won't hurt so bad.'_

The door jangled open, and in floated Albain, still in his uniform from his hotel shift. "Meggie! Maintenant, il est temps de celebrer!" He wrapped her up in a quick hug before scooting onto a bar stool. "Mon dieu, what a fool we had at the hotel today, my Meg. A fool! A man and his trunk needed to be parted, tout-suite! The thing was heavy, and the suite, top floor, of course." Meg's hands gave out as she poured shots, and she dropped the bottle onto the floor behind the bar.

"Al...Albain...what did the guy look like?"

"Ah, cheri, what do they all look like? Tall, dark, and too much money. Threw a fifty dollar bill at my feet. Like I am some common dog! Lucky for us both, it all will spend here tonight, eh? Bonne nuit, my Meg!" Albain pushed the fifty across the counter to her, and pulled the over-filled shots toward himself, oblivious to the massive tremors going through Meg's hands. Picking up the money like it would set itself on fire, Meg looked it over carefully. No message in the margin, no phone number, nothing. She went to put it in the till, but then her hands – they reeked of Jackson's cologne. Nobody she'd ever met, ever in her life, had ever worn the stuff. Citrusy sandalwood with an awful leaf-smoke undertone, it stuck to everything it touched.

He was here. He was disturbingly close, exactly as she both wanted and never wanted.

"Albain, that monsieur with the trunk," Meg shouted over the din of the TV and pool tables, "When you see him again, tell him to come here for drinks."

"Oh, non, non, Meggie. He is not for this place, mon cher, you have to see that."

"I know, Albain. Just...consider it a favor to me, oui?"

* * *

It took a few days – Meg knew Jackson wouldn't take well to being _told_ to do anything – but he did show up, camping out at a table in the corner of the bar until near closing time, not understanding that "closing" was something that, while legally required to be posted, was not always legally followed, especially in that area of town. An extra half hour passed, then an extra hour and a half, and by the third time Jackson dramatically flicked his wrist watch out from under his shirtsleeve, Meg knew she was in trouble. Already drunk – _'Just like every night. Just hold it together. Have faith and hold it together. It doesn't work if you don't. You can handle this, Meg' – _Meg threw back a few extra shots and lit a cigarette for good measure, being sure to hide her lighter far under the counter. _'If he can't find it, he can't...use...it'_ she reasoned.

With the last regular finally out the door, Jackson rose from his chair, the legs scraping thickly against the sticky floor. Not bothering to put cash on the table, he made his way to the bar, where Meg stood shivering in the heat, counting out the drawer for the night. _'Never thought I'd hate closing out alone.'_

"Kitten."

Meg swallowed hard and dared a smirk. "Took y' long 'nough." _'Sound the part, Meg.'_

"Don't fuck around with me, Meg. Shut your smart fucking mouth unless you're going to do something useful with it." He grabbed her arm and hauled her over the counter, sending the drawer to the floor, throwing Meg down to the floor on the other side, taking down several stools with her.

From her tangled heap on the floor, Meg moved slowly, trying to buy time to consider her options. _'I have to keep him interested enough to come back a few times. Just a few. He's gotta get comfortable.' _"'Kay. 'Kay, Jackson, y' were right. I was dumb t' go, an' it took a long time t' see it an' come home. He fucked me over. Y' were...good t' me. I should-"

He was right, she should have kept her mouth closed. Her teeth came together violently when his shoe connected with the bottom of her jaw, and Meg had to feel around with her tongue to make sure nothing had chipped or broken.

"Whore. Mouth. Shut it. Where's your room?"

Silently, Meg stumbled to her feet. She wasn't drunk enough to be foot-falling over herself, just enough to take the edge off the pain she planned on feeling and knew was coming. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, not sure how Jackson wanted her to work this – he hated it when she 'led' him anywhere, and she had no idea how functional her mouth was.

"Up there? Wow. You picked a winner, Meg. A fucking attic, over a shithole bar." Jackson pushed past her, fisting her shirt around his hand, dragging her behind him. Try as she might, she couldn't catch her feet on the stairs to help balance her way behind him, and her collar was digging into her throat.

"On the bed. Not a sound. And don't bother undressing, I don't need that much and I'm not staying that long." Jackson's belt buckle made an ominous thump as it hit the floor. "You, though – don't get any ideas. You stay right here until I'm ready to take you back home. No running anymore, Meg, or I'm going to make this _very_ unpleasant."

Meg, numb from the waist down thanks to banging over the bar, through the bar stools, and up the stairs, let her mind drift as she counted Jackson's grunts and wondered idly if he'd be done before twenty or thirty. _'I don't care. He said he's coming back. He's going to get comfortable here. And that's when he's going to fuck up.'_

As it happened, it was twenty-three before he was done, and her mind snapped back to the night Joe helped her find a shirt, cradled her, took each piece of glass out of her, made her into Meg and not Jackson's Meg, and she felt a cold tear roll down the side of her face.

"The fuck is that shit for?" The gesture wasn't lost on Jackson, who crushed her cheekbones in his hand, mashing her face back and forth, trying to read the expression in Meg's eyes.

"I missed you, 's'all." Forcing out even those words was beyond painful; Meg's mouth refused to move properly, and her heart wanted to vomit at the thought of voicing that lie.

"Good." Jackson's smile was satisfied. "Very good girl. I'll be back in a few days. Try to clean up; you are a fucking _mess_."

Silently, Meg turned her back toward him, not moving from the bed, but bunching a pillow up against her chest all the same. _'You have no idea, you smug shit. But this ends here.'_


	25. Take It Til You Break It

To all my loyal R&amp;R'ers, THANK YOU! To all my new R&amp;R'ers, welcome, and please, keep leaving me messages and feedback - I do reply! And for those of you lurking in the woodwork, feel free to shoot me a quick message. I'm friendly, I promise - and I love to hear what everyone's thinking/getting/not getting.

Onward!

* * *

It took several days before Meg could speak properly – she explained it to her employers as the result of her slipping down the stairs and landing on her face. No security cameras meant no questions, so Meg was free to be as beaten and bruised as she wanted or needed to be in order to make her plan work.

Jackson stayed, lingered, became an evil specter around the bar. The regulars knew, somehow, that he didn't fit there. It wasn't just the clothing, the attitude, the sudden interest in being the last one out of the bar every night – it was the sudden change in Meg. She hadn't ever been what anyone would call healthy, even when she first started work, but his presence made it worse. Coffee, cigarettes, alcohol, and stress were her four food groups, and she collapsed into bed any time she wasn't actively at work behind the bar or serving tables on the floor. Meg's regulars finally took to simply outlasting Jackson at the bar, which only prompted a change in his strategy. If he couldn't have her on her ground, he would simply have her on his.

After that first night, Jackson was much smarter about where he left his marks as well; tatting up her face wouldn't do. He already knew his presence wasn't exactly welcome at the bar; if he went too far and left anything else quite so visible he knew the regulars would be paying him a visit. _'I'm paying for a hotel room I'm not even using. Enough of this shit with the attic. She'll be going back with me, back home, eventually.'_

Meg went through her usual routine of closing up and waiting to see which route Jackson would go for access to her – over the bar, behind it, on it – it never mattered which, as long as he got it over with and she went through the act of Appearing Desperately In Love. Every time, it was easier to bleed her brain off from the rest of her body and float back to memories of Joe and touching the slight texture of his tattoo, rolling the soft ends of his hair across her fingertips, or the way she would curl into his lap or against his chest and feel the heat of his skin. In those moments, it didn't matter if Jackson was on her or under her, how drunk either of them was, whether he was forcing her to her knees or tying her to the bed – it was all just some vague physical sensation that didn't matter because it wasn't Joe, it wasn't anyone she wanted. _'And that's__the whole point of this. Keeping everyone safe.__Doesn't matter what happens to me. Just shut up and take it, Meg.'_

* * *

Joe shut down backstage, refusing to speak to anyone more than was necessary to get through a promo, segment, or match. After that, it was back to workouts, hotels, meals, bed, and unfortunately, charity events. Corporate, now that Meg was gone, had forced him to take a date to the Hall of Fame ceremony, and he balked mightily but was overruled. He couldn't understand it himself – if he was over Meg, if that chapter was closed and he was done, then what difference did it make who he took with him to a two-hour, semi-social event? Joe's skin crawled when they touched for photographs, and of course, photographers were everywhere._'What's wrong with me? I need to leave. I can't leave. I need to throw up. Go smile, Joe. Smile. Look happy. I promised Meg I wouldn't go to these things anymore. Why am I here? Where is Meg?'_

* * *

Randy and his girlfriend were in attendance as well, cordially cold, both toward Joe and each other. Something was off-kilter there, too, but Joe couldn't put his finger on it. Everyone was emotionally exhausted, that much was true. The strain was evident on even Dave's face, and he had to go to Randy's side more than once to remind him to stop fidgeting, not clench his hands, or quit checking the doors. Randy's girlfriend, having had enough of it all after Dave's fourth visit to their table, made a highly public exit from the event. Joe couldn't catch all of it, but was close enough to hear her tell Randy she couldn't take it, felt like he wasn't hers anymore.

Randy's facial expression never changed, even as his girlfriend shoved him, then barged out the door. Dave wandered over to him, patted his arm, tried to be reassuring, but Randy's face remained like stone. Joe sighed; he knew that feeling – nothing really registering in your head, other than knowing things were unraveling and wouldn't stop.

Time to take a chance; it wasn't like it could get worse. Joe walked over, but realized too late he hadn't formulated a plan any deeper than, _'Try.'_

"Hey, uh...hey, Randy." Joe stammered out a half-assed greeting; opening up any line of conversation was going to be much harder than he thought, even with Dave there as a buffer.

Dave looked up from Randy to Joe, edgy at being trapped between them. "Joe, now might not be the best time to -"

"Randy told me there never is a best time, Dave. Remember, Randy? Right before the contracts came up. So, here I am." Joe didn't have a clue where he was going, but knew he was walking on thin ice, bring up Meg in such a backhanded way.

"What the fuck do you want, Joe?" Randy was exhausted, not angry, and didn't care to entertain the conversation a moment longer than he had to.

"Heard from her lately?"

"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Joe sighed, heavily. He noticed Meg's medallion, now on a different chain, around Randy's neck, and had to forcibly keep his hands at his sides to stop from snatching it back. His mouth, however, had different plans. "You have something that belongs to me, Randy."

"You know what, Joe? You have something that belongs to me, too."

Dave tightened his grip on Randy's arm and began a forward push. "Let's go get a drink. Of anything. And some air. Now."

Randy shoulder-checked Joe as he shoved past him towards the bar, and Joe took off towards the mens' room to prevent himself from turning and punching Randy squarely in the back of the head. Instead, he punched the stall divider in the restroom, feeling another, sharper twinge low in his stomach. _'Stress. Fucking stress. Where is she? I need her to come home. I don't even know how to find her, I should have been answering her calls, I'm breaking apart, and why do I keep talking about me? Randy's right, I'm such an asshole. It's not about me, it's about her. What the fuck is happening to her?' _Joe swung again, and the pain in his stomach intensified. Gasping, he leaned against the counter, trying desperately to catch his breath before he went back out to tell his date he, too, was leaving.

* * *

At the bar, Randy slammed back shot after shot of tequila. Dave let him have three before calling him off and telling the bartender to simply put two tumblers on a tray, along with the bottle, and follow them out to a table. Refusing to let go of Randy's elbow, he half-dragged, half-pushed him out to the largely empty veranda and off into a corner, waiting for the tray to be shuttled along to them.

"You're going to break your liver if you keep that shit up. Meg wouldn't be happy with you."

"Meg's out there doing the same shit if not worse, so save the lecture." As if on cue, the tray materialized along with a waiter, who graciously accepted a tip from Dave before backing away.

"Randy...you know what I mean. We have to be able to...I don't know. We have to be functional for her, if she isn't."

"Fuck functional. At least for tonight. My girl walked out on me. The one who matters, anyway." He poured generously into one tumbler, paused to think, then splashed a little extra over its top before pushing the unused glass to the side and drinking directly from the bottle.

"Okay, you know what? Talk to me about that. What's this 'my girl' thing that you pull out every time Joe goes all Captain Dickwipe on Meg? I know you're the protective big brother, but this is different."

Randy tensed, looked around, and then realized he was caught by his own mouth. "Nothing. It's...nothing. Meg's...always been there for me, and I get a little...angry...when he goes off on her like she's-"

"Bullshit. Your girlfriend just walked out on you, publicly, and you didn't even blink. I heard what she said – that you're not there anymore. You're wearing Meg's medallion, and you resized the chain on it so you _could_ wear it. You pick up phone calls that could just as likely be a sex-starved ring rat as they could be our little runaway. You just told Joe he has something that belongs to you. And you've never once faulted Meg for having her breakdown – instead, you make every possible justification you can think of. So try again. I've got twenty years of 'Oops, fell in love' experience on you, I think I know it when I see it."

"Dave, shut the fuck up."

"Nope. You're putting yourself through silent hell. Honestly, you're taking it worse than Joe is, you're just not talking about it. Other than when you're calling Joe a cocksucker. Then, you're pretty loud, I'll give you credit."

Staring down at the bottle of tequila – _'And why is it always tequila? Just like it's always caramels__and roses with her, it's always that goddamned flowery tequila with me. It's...like roses?'_ \- Randy rolled his thumbs across the surface of the bottle, feeling the cold smoothness of the glass under his fingers.

"Dave, sometimes I fucking hate you." He refused to look up, not trusting his eyes to stay clear. "I fucking hate that he got to her first, I fucking hate that I know her better than anyone else, I fucking hate our stupid, fucked-up timing, I hate Jackson, I hate everything. Everything. The split second I saw her, I knew I was done."

Dave sipped at his tequila, more out of politeness than any real desire to drink, and kept quiet, waiting for Randy to continue.

"I was such a goddamned train wreck after that divorce, and Meg was the only person who took it all on and never said a word. You don't even know. I was trying to wreck myself. Stupid shit at work, stupid shit outside of work...anything I could do to tempt fate. To try to make a disaster happen. The shit I laid on her...I was such a miserable dick. She was just so...patient. Like she was telling me to just...bring on my worst and it was all okay. There was nothing I did that she couldn't...fix? Man, I don't know."

Randy sighed and slouched down in his chair. "I don't know how I survived some of those randoms. I should have been back in treatment, shit, I should have been in a padded room on a funny farm. The more I talked to her, the more I...I guess I changed how I looked at her. She never asked me for anything, never told me I had to tell her anything, never gave me lectures, never laid down an ultimatum, nothing. But I didn't want her to be a rebound..."

"Which was the right thing to do." Dave chuckled. "You might have a soul after all, Orton."

Randy popped up a middle finger, but managed a wry smile before continuing. "And after a while, it was like I realized I just...I did but she didn't...look at me that way. Or I guess I was never sure. And I didn't want to fuck it up by pretending something was there when it wasn't. I figured I laid so much shit on her that she couldn't...wouldn't look at me as anything other than her fucked-up friend. That we were too much alike."

"And of course, then there was Joe. And by the time there was Joe, you were seeing someone else, too." Dave tried filling in the blanks, not wanting Randy to struggle for words any more than he had to.

"Yeah. So there was nothing I could do, really. She was so happy, finally. She seemed like she was happy, anyway. Once her and Joe straightened their shit out." Randy took another giant pull off of the bottle. "And then Jackson came back, and she lost it."

"And now here we are."

"Well, here we are. Wherever she is...who knows."

"You know just like I do, Randy. She's told you all the stories, probably more than me. If she went anywhere, she went back to New Orleans. If she said she has a plan, she has a plan. Probably not the most intelligent thing we've ever heard, but a plan."

"And what kills me is, we could have just lawyered it out."

"We?" Dave looked perplexed. "You know she wasn't letting Jackson anywhere near Joe. There was no 'we' that was gonna happen there."

"Me." Randy was back to rolling the tequila bottle around in his hands; the cold glass reminded him of Meg. "Me. I'm so far into the company...there's not much that'd take me down, short of testing positive for meth or actually killing somebody. If she had just stayed in the hotel room five more minutes instead of trying to kill me with a Kleenex box, I could have told her that. I would have protected her, but she never...wants that from me." Finally, his voice caught, and he drank again to force the burning to force down the emotion.

"Nothing's done yet, Randy. We stop through there after the next pay show. Maybe she'll show up. And we're both going to rip that town apart to find her, you know that."

Randy nodded. The motion caused Meg's medallion to slip from behind his shirt collar and clink against the neck of the bottle of tequila, both men startling at the tiny noise.

"She's okay," Randy whispered, "I think it means she's okay."

* * *

"Jackson, stop!" Meg was wailing, unable to stop either the noise or the bleeding. "Please, just...just for a minute. I can't breathe right."

She knew her ribs were broken; things in her chest were gritting together that never had before, but it was the blood blinding her eyes that was scaring her. She couldn't brace for the next impact if she couldn't see it coming, and her awkward landing against the headboard of his hotel bed had opened a long laceration across her scalp. _'Bet it beats Randy's fifteen staples from that ladder match. Why do I even think of this shit?'_

Jackson dragged her up to her knees; Meg could feel her scalp tearing as he lifted her entirely by her hair. "Did you just tell me what to do, bitch? Did you just tell me not to do something?"

"Jackson, please," Meg whispered, "I feel like I'm gonna die. You didn't do it, I'm just clumsy. I fell getting on the bed, that's all." _'Yeah, when you put your foot through my side. That's when I fell. Just let me get dressed. That's all I need from you right now.'_

"You look just fine to me. Now stay on the bed. And shut your mouth unless I need it for something."

Silently, Meg thought of a thousand ways to kill him. _'That's fine. When I'm dead by the end of this little marathon fuck session of yours, I hope you have a Plan B for body disposal.'_


	26. German Engineering

Meg wasn't dead, but she was vomiting blood by the end of the night. Even Jackson was smart enough to panic on that one; he didn't know what to do other than to _not_ call for an ambulance because that would mean answering questions, and he was far too drunk for that.

"What the fuck, Meg! What the fuck! What's wrong with you? Stop doing that shit!"

"Jackson...just...please. Drop me off at a hospital. Out in the parking lot. I won't say shit. It's okay. I just fell." _'Fell on what, asshole? Kicks, punches, slaps, weeks worth of your bullshit and all for this. I want to shoot you in the head and see what pretty colors you make.'_

"I'm not that stupid. You'll tell them I did this. I should just leave you here, you stupid bitch! You're broken, anyway. Fucked up. I should have just left you where I found you."

"Then take my ID. Take my wallet." Meg paused to cough more blood onto the floor in the bathroom, earning another slap from Jackson. "I can't _be_ anyone without an ID. I'm not in a hotel, I'm not traceable. Even my job is all cash. I don't exist." _'And what that has to do with telling the cops you tried to kill me, I don't know. Drunk logic. I wonder what noises you'd make if I cut your balls off.'_

"You don't exist?" Jackson looked interested.

Meg pounced on the opportunity. _'Bingo. Drunk logic. Dumbfuck.' _"I'm nobody, Jackson. I just wanna stop throwing up, they can give me medicine for that. Then I can come home to you. Nobody will know. I just wanna be with you, so you can take care of me."

Jackson kept pacing, manic, raking his hands through his hair, vodka on ice in his hand, finally pushing her down onto the bathroom floor with his foot, pinning her throat under far too much of his weight. "If you say a fucking word, I _will_ kill you."

Meg tried to wheeze out an answer, but nothing came other than spit and some crushed gurgles. She pushed at his foot, lifting enough to let her nod in assent, and she felt the pressure let up ever so slightly. It was enough for her to start gasping for air, to keep conscious and focused. _'Right now, that's all I need. Stay awake, Meg. Stay awake.'_

"Get up. You need to walk on your own. And keep your head down." Jackson threw Meg's clothes at her as he found them, slamming the bathroom door behind him once he felt he gave her enough to be sufficiently covered.

_'Shit. Shit, shit. Hurry up, Meg. Go, go go. Get on your feet _now_.'_

Meg dragged her clothing on, forcing herself to ignore the grinding in her chest, and lunged out into the bedroom, praying Jackson hadn't looked at her shoes. He was leaning against the dresser, swirling a clearly refilled drink in its glass. His face read somewhere between irritated and inebriated; Meg had to tread lightly. She padded carefully toward the bed, sitting down slowly on the edge, and while working her feet into her shoes managed to feel around inside of both of them, breathing a small sigh of relief. _'Small favors, Cosmic Being. Thank you.'_

Jackson forced the rest of his drink down and slammed the glass against the surface of the dresser, jolting Meg out of her thoughts. Grabbing her by the arm, he lifted her from the bed and pushed her toward the door, but peered out into the hallway ahead of her.

"Keep. Your mouth. Shut." Jackson's voice was an acidic hiss, and she could smell the alcohol on him, antiseptic and bracing. Sweeping her hair over the worst of her cut, Meg stayed silent, didn't look at him or anyone else, and slowly, felt a sense of calm creep over her body. Everything started to ache a little less, her vision cleared a little more, the gritting was slightly less noticeable. Boarding the elevator down to the parking garage, Meg breathed easily for the first time since walking away from Joe.

_'Dear Cosmic Being. I'm coming home. Tell everyone I'm sorry. Tell everyone I love them. Let me stay awake long enough to see what pretty colors he makes. I'm so sorry. Such a bad Magdalena. Or a good one. I don't know, but I'm coming home.'_

Once they made it down to the parking garage, Meg was dizzy. She bent to spit blood into the cigarette bin near the elevator doors, and was disoriented when she rose back to vertical. By the time Jackson half dragged, half shoved her over to his BMW, she was shivering and covered in a cold sweat. It was hard work hauling the passenger door open, but it was worth it to sink into the luxury of the interior of the car. _'I have to give him credit. He always did have good taste. Preferred foreign models, even when he was cheating on me.'_

"Don't fucking bleed on _anything_. You hear me?"

"I won't, baby. I'm listening. And I won't say anything. You know how much I love you."

Pushing the ignition button, the car roared to life. Meg slowly buckled herself into her seat, trying not to twist too much, aggravate her ribs further, or risk losing consciousness. Jackson backed out wildly, banging Meg around the interior of the car, attracting far too much attention from the garage attendant, who waved at them and yelled to slow down as they pulled away.

"Asshole." Jackson muttered.

"He shouldn't tell you how to drive, baby." Meg would have told Jesus to piss up a rope if it meant keeping Jackson pliable. She tilted herself towards him, checking the speedometer, watching him drop down onto the freeway, knowing they were about 20 minutes away from the nearest emergency room. _'Even if he speeds, it's all good. Right, Cosmic Being? I don't even have to watch, honestly.'_

Meg tried to still her hands, and took as deep a breath as her body would allow her. She adjusted towards the glove compartment and leaned down over her knees in an affected bout of faux-nausea, beginning to rummage down the side of her shoe. Quickly, she palmed one of Jackson's fountain pens against her leg and wrote Randy's phone number on the side of her calf. She had managed to knock the pen to the floor while Jackson was throwing her around the bedroom in between blowjobs. Later that night, she slipped it into her shoe, determined to bring it with her if she was able to talk Jackson into leaving their room with her at some point. _'At least Randy will answer the fucking phone when the morgue calls. And you had too much to drink, Jackson.'_

"Are you gonna fucking throw up?" Jackson took one hand off the wheel and snatched Meg up by the hair, slamming her back into her seat and sending the car into a swerve. "What the _fuck _did I tell you about fucking up my car? Are you gonna fuck up my car?"

"Yes, Jackson." Meg's voice was eerily flat. "I'm gonna _really _fuck up your car."

She pulled back as hard as she could with the pen and slammed it down into his thigh, then lunged for the steering wheel and yanked it as far to the right as she could get it to go before her seat belt snapped her back into place. The car, already fishtailing from Jackson's misguided decision to take one hand off the wheel, went into a complete spin, hitting the concrete barrier and then going into a barrel roll down the middle of the highway.

In the split second Jackson had to correct the multiple problems that were about to complicate his night, he couldn't decide if he needed to pull the pen from his leg, correct the spin on the steering wheel, or snap Meg's neck. He didn't have the time to prioritize any of his ideas before the driver's side of the car slammed into the concrete median, bending the front of the body of the car around him and slamming the steering column into his chest.

Meg watched time slow down around her, saw the pillowy airbags explode – and then saw Jackson's became coated entirely in red as it met, then disappeared inside of, his chest. A shower of auto glass coated his face, then hers, leaving a glittering mist in the air inside the car. _'I won the battle and the war, right, Cosmic Being? And he made pretty colors.'_ Meg tucked her arms in, pulled her legs up, and closed her eyes as the car crumpled in around her from all angles, rolling down the highway at eighty miles an hour, coming to rest against the cement legs of an overpass, rocking gently in the warm night air.


	27. Jane Doe, Where's Your Lost Soldier?

Something was dripping onto her face. It was warm and tasted like pennies; no matter how much Meg tried to spit – which was admittedly difficult because her mouth didn't want to move the way her brain asked it to – the substance kept coming. She couldn't move her head to look at the source, either: her neck refused to turn. Both of Meg's arms and one leg were pinned against her chest; she remembered balling herself up into her seat before the car had fully committed to its series of barrel rolls, but now they were making it harder and harder to breathe. Her other leg's location was a mystery to her. _'Here's hoping it's down there somewhere. This wasn't the deal, Cosmic Being.'_ Pressing her fingers into her sides, she could feel not only the breaks in her ribs, but what she knew were the protruding edges of her ribs themselves. _'Compound fracture. Probably more than that, too. Can't feel a leg. Arm is bent. Shoulder burns. I can see my collarbone. That looks kinda_ _wrong.'_

Suddenly aware that the world was sideways, Meg rolled her eyes around as much as possible, trying to take in her surroundings. The interior of the car was dark; the air was thick with the powder from the airbags and sparkling dust from the broken glass. It occurred to her, vaguely, that she was going to die there, on the side of the road. _'At least so many things are fucked up that it can't all hurt at once. I hope someone calls you.'_ The ringing in her ears was so loud she couldn't think, so she simply closed her eyes and waited, not understanding that the sound was coming from sirens instead of from the impact of her concussion.

* * *

A small crowd had gathered at the side of the road, alongside the crew from the ambulance, the police, and the fire brigade, who had already tarped the man's side of the car and begun to cut through the metal supporting the windshield near the woman.

"He's done. Steering column is through him _and_ the seat. She's still breathing, though."

Unfortunately, the jaws of life only moved at one speed, regardless of how urgent the situation was, and they didn't care about the woman's shattered tibia, protruding collarbone, or compound rib fractures. One of the more agile firefighters crawled in around the woman and draped a sheet over her inside the car, in part to protect her from the sparks caused during the extraction and in part to prevent any more of the man's blood from dripping onto her. Once the sheet was in place, a swarm of EMTs began to work around the extraction team, laying IV lines, covering open wounds, and generally clucking their tongues at the number of injuries to the woman that were obviously old and not caused by the car accident.

"You can _smell_ the booze coming off him. What the fuck was he thinking? Mon dieu. God does not love _all_ drunks, eh?"

"Just cut faster. Her pressure is going down, not up. She's not stable and it's not gonna get better out here."

"Look. Odds are good it's not gonna get better even once we get her on a table."

"Still, try. She deserves better than what this asshole did. Roof's off; get her braced and out."

Locked into all manner of plastic supports, strapped to a board and lifted to a stretcher, the EMTs finally were able to cut away the woman's clothing, smearing an inky phone number in the process.

"Hey, hey, wait. Be careful!" one of the paramedicals called for paper. "Something's on her leg. Look – give me your light. We fucked up some of the numbers, but...maybe it's someone to call. Was there a wallet or ID in the car?"

"Like we're gonna find anything in that? C'est arte moderne, now, not a car."

"Just write down as much as you can and give it to the cops. We have to get her in the bus _now_."

An EMT – Remy – wrote down the numbers, peered at them a second time, and wrote down a few more guesses as to what they might have been before sweat, blood, force of impact, and their medical work had jumbled them together.

"Here's hoping, ma peche. One of these better be a phone that works," He whispered to himself as he passed the slip of paper to an officer, who was still marveling at the crumpled car in front of him and wondering when, exactly, the coroner would arrive to deal with the mangled, dripping remains of the driver.

"Call, s'il vous plait. She's not going anywhere."

"Dead?"

"Not yet, but...you never know. She lived through it, so that's one thing, but...I'd call quick, tell you that much."

The officer grunted out some sort of non-committal sound, and put the numbers in his pocket. Remy turned to walk away, then turned back to the officer. "Hey, uh...actually...you're gonna have your hands full with this guy, anyway. Drunk, and all that. You can smell it on him. And the road's a mess, glass, metal, merde for days...you want us to make those calls for you?" _'Mon dieu, let him say yes. She might have a family, he is not going to call...'_

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the officer took far too long to make the decision. He pulled out the paper, reading it over several times. "_All_ these numbers are hers?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Jesus. Yeah, here, you go ahead and call. Merci."

Remy sent up a silent prayer of thanks, snatched the paper out of the officer's hands, and ran back to his rig. He leapt into the back and slammed the doors shut, pounding on the back wall to signal the driver to go. He wiped clumped, bloody hair out of the woman's face and leaned down close to her ear, hoping she was lucid enough to hear him.

"Hey in there. I have your phone numbers. I'm going to call as soon as we get to the hospital. Hold it together, oui? Don't quit on me yet."

The various machines and monitors in the back of the ambulance droned and toned slowly, but they all indicated the woman was alive, if barely. "Good enough," Remy spoke to their screens, "For now, good enough."

* * *

At the same time, Joe - having much more sense than Jackson, but making just as much noise as Meg - finally caved in, ended his current call, and started a new one for an ambulance of his own. The pain in his stomach was unbearable; he couldn't crawl, let alone walk. _'Fuck Randy. And fuck Dave, too. I don't need help, I can deal with this. Take care of myself. I'm done with anything that ever touched her.' _Panting, eyes watering, he waited, shaking from the effort of holding still on the edge of the bed.

A small part of Joe, the nostalgic, lonely part that craved her scent and her touch, was begging him to go to Randy or Dave, get help, was crying out for Meg, but it was easier and easier to force that emotion down, to choke off those feelings before they made it up to becoming actual words. _'Don't even think about her. That's done. It was a fun ride, great sex, and it's done. Now where the fuck is the ambulance?' _

The thumping at the door minutes later told Joe the paramedics had arrived, and it was with great relief that he saw them let themselves into his room. "Sorry, guys. I don't think I can get up right now." Despite that, Joe tried to move from his perch, and was greeted by the ceiling swooping immediately up and behind him, leaving the carpet to take its place at the top of the room. _'Why does everything make me pass out? This fucking hurts. This fucking hurts so bad.'_ Joe's phone fell from his hand as he hit the floor, leaving the medics to puzzle over who, exactly, to contact about the emergency – there was no asking Joe, now. Opting for the last number called, one of the EMT's pressed redial on their way out the door, ending up with Joe's ex-fiance on the line as they boarded the elevator.

* * *

Back with the crash survivor, Remy sat down with her list of numbers and prepared for disappointment. Granted, he was working during bar-time and most people would be ignoring their phones in favor of beer bottles, but he was holding out hope. The first number went to voicemail that didn't have a personalized greeting, so he left a short message asking the owner of the number to please call Ochsner Baptist Hospital and ask to speak to the critical care desk if they were expecting a relative who hadn't arrived home that night. The same message went out to the next two numbers; only two combinations were left to try. "Jesu, s'il vous plait, let one of these work. She's trying so hard, let there be someone out there for her." He picked up his phone and dialed again, marveling at how long this number rang without going to voicemail. He prepared to hang up, thinking there was something wrong with the line, when a sleep-thick voice answered.

"H'lo? Meg? Meg, 's'you?"

"Monsieur, I am a paramedic with the New Orleans Emergency Medical Services, and I -"

Randy sat bolt upright in his hotel bed, Meg's medallion tapping against his chest, his eyes burning from sleep but his mind wide awake. "Magdalena Nechayev. What happened to her? Who are you?"

Remy immediately grabbed his pen and scribbled Meg's name next to Randy's number. "Oh, merci, merci. Mon dieu. I thought we wouldn't find _anyone_. My name is Remy. And Magdalena-"

"Meg," Randy cut in while scrambling for clothing, throwing things into his suitcase, trying to pull on track pants, tangling himself in their legs,"Call her Meg."

"Bien, bien. Meg was in a car accident."

Randy felt his stomach seize. "How bad?"

"Monsieur, you should come now. Very quickly. The driver has died and I am not sure-"

"What? Say that again, the driver what?"

"Did you know him as well? He was...he could not be identified at the scene. Dark hair, Caucasian male, seemed to be quite tall, and was...quite inebriated. We could not find any wallets."

Randy's head was swimming. "Where are you now?"

"Ochsner Baptist, in New Orleans. Can you be here soon?"

"I have no idea. I can leave now, on the next plane. I don't even remember what city I'm in – Nashville, I think. I can get on a red eye. We travel a lot."

"I will arrange for you to see her when you are here. You are...her brother, non?"

Randy froze in his tracks. "Oh...Right. Uh, yeah." _'Well fuck me, this is awkward. I can't see her if I'm not family. If I say I'm anything else, then why the fuck would she be with a different man all the way down in New Orleans?'_

"I will wait here for you. Come to the Critical Care unit. Ask for Remy."

Randy hung up, paced, threw more things toward his suitcase, threw a lamp across the room, then called Dave, who didn't give Randy the option of driving himself to the airport after the situation was explained. He packed and showed up outside of Randy's hotel in his cramped rental car, gesturing him into the passenger seat. Dave watched him silently for a few seconds before shifting the car into drive; he wasn't sure Randy would make it to the airport before he started screaming. He felt like something had to be said before the situation exploded.

Randy, as was becoming more the norm, surprised him by speaking first.

"She _can't_ die. Just...she can't." His voice was high-pitched and watery, and he writhed in his seat. _'There's no way I'm going to make it through a flight. No fucking way. I'm going to crawl out of my skin right the fuck now.' _

"Dave...I'll take the hit on the wellness policy...but...you have to give me something. I'm going to fucking lose it. That guy on the phone...Remy...he said the driver was _dead_. Couldn't be _identified. _That means it's _bad_." He suddenly seemed to overflow the passenger seat, both by size and noise, and threatened to spill out of the car by sheer force of emotion. Dave cringed, but had to state the obvious.

"Don't hate me for this, but are you _sure_ the guy on the phone wasn't actually Jackson? Or one of his buddies? That this isn't all some sort of sick bait-and-switch? I'm just as worried as you, but I don't want you to fuck up your job over anything we aren't sure about yet. Especially since our schedule is public. Everyone knows we travel to NOLA next. Wouldn't this be a great time to fuck with us?"

Randy rolled the strap of his seatbelt around his fist tighter and tighter, watching his fingers turn red, then pale, not sure how to respond to Dave and now kicking an entirely new possibility around his mind. "Should I call the hospital? Check things out? Or talk to the cops?"

"It can't hurt. If a wreck really happened, and she's really a Jane Doe like Remy said, they won't know anything about her unless you give a description. Best-case, they'll tell you she's in surgery."

"If they tell me she died, Dave, I'm done. I'm just fucking _done._ I'm getting out of the car."

"You know what, let me pull over while you dial. You make a good point about cell phones being dangerous on the road."

A few quick web searches, and Randy was able to find phone numbers to call both Ochsner Baptist and the correct parish police department, ending up with enough information to vomit not once but twice on the side of the highway.

Dave handed him another bottle of water and crouched next to him on the gravel while cars flew past, oblivious to Randy's misery. _'Ironic. We're on the side of the road. Meg would appreciate this if she was here.'_

Trying to sound more composed and less anxious than he actually felt, Dave started slowly. "Okay. Tell me what's going on. And don't break your phone, you're going to need it."

"Huge...huge wreck." Randy's breathing came in ragged gasps. "Car was almost in half. It was Jackson. Drunk as fuck." Randy retched again, and Dave forced him to drink more water. "Meg was tore up real bad. Still in surgery. They...they don't know if..."

"Okay. Okay." The triage phone rang from inside Dave's car, and he glared over his shoulder at the intrusion. "Sit here. I have to answer that. If you move, I'm going to shoot you with the gun I don't have. I mean it – don't get up. You'll pass out." Dave snatched the phone out of the center console of his car, pacing up and down the shoulder as he spoke. He stopped to lean into the side of his car as the conversation continued. _'Great. More shit on top of shit. How do I even explain this one to Randy without him going out to play in traffic?'_

Returning to Randy's side, he sat down heavily next to him, silent for several seconds and not daring to look at him. When he spoke, his voice was flat. "Randy...there's something else now, too. Joe's in surgery. We have to clear this with corporate before we go anywhere. They won't let us board a plane, period. The company was caught off-guard. It was an emergency."

"No, _fuck_ corporate. Do you hear me? This is an emergency! We have to go!"

"And you have to have a job. They're re-writing whole scripts on the fly. Jon is coming back to fill in the gaps. We have to stay, we can't get away with it; Meg isn't an emergency to them. Call the hospital back. No, I'll call the hospital back. You need to call corporate."

Randy walked off the shoulder into the grassy, wooded area far from the road, and leaned into a tree. The world was spinning around him. He dug his nails into his palms, then reached up to feel for Meg's necklace. "No," he growled, "No, no, _no._ Meg, I...I'm trying. Please just...Meg, I'm so sorry. I can't. I don't know what Joe fucked up this time." Randy turned and walked back to Dave's car, taking his phone out of the older man's hand as he walked.

"I'll wait to get on the plane. But we're staying at the airport, just in case."

"In case what, creative grows some compassion? Meg doesn't work for the company anymore. It's not their job to care, Randy. I'm sorry. It's wrong, and it's fucked up, but they're the ones in control."

"Just fucking drive. There are hotels at the airport." _'Control. I have never had control.'_

"Just don't make any phone calls until we get there. You talk now, you're going to mouth yourself right out of a plane ride. Calm down. I'll find you a valium before you dial."

* * *

Meg woke up screaming, in part from the nightmare she was having, in part from the pain that coursed through her body like brushfire. Nurses flew into her room, pinning her to the bed, pushing button after button on machine after machine, morphine and ativan flowing freely through lines and coils towards Meg, everyone praying it would shut down whatever was wrong with her.

Which it did - she slipped back into whatever dark space she woke from, this time with less pain, but also with no ability to slow her mind's freefall through oblivion. _'Where is he? Then again...why would anyone come for me? Burned bridges and couldn't swim.'_

One week of sedation stretched into two, and eventually the hospital wasn't sure if they should transfer her to the psychiatric ward or keep her in critical care. She was full of screws and wires, barely ate, fought anyone who came near her, screamed incoherently at people, had continuously unstable vital signs, and eventually the sedatives stopped working. Scan after scan found no brain trauma that could explain her behavior; the doctors concluded her 'psychiatric disturbance' was organic in nature and not resulting from the trauma of the accident. _'I'm not crazy; you assholes are making me crazy. Let me go. Let me talk to them. Leave me alone. You have no idea how much I hate hospitals. I should have turned the wheel harder.'_

Ochsner's administrative board made the decision to transfer her, as well as her medical bills, over to Tulane. Meg was harder to handle than anyone anticipated; whatever Jackson had done with her wallet that night had been permanent, her LPN had lapsed, she wasn't employed, and carried no insurance. Remy fought tooth and nail for her – she had become his personal mission of sorts, if for no other reason than she tugged at his heartstrings. He gave Randy's phone number to Ochsner's administrative board; even Dave had been worked into screaming matches with the various departments handling Meg's treatment – but it was all for naught. Magdalena Nechayev – or case number 8684572 – had ten days before she would be transferred to Tulane, a teaching hospital, essentially as a science project, because Ochsner could no longer afford to care for her on their own dime.

* * *

Remy called Randy and Dave continuously, trying to work out some sort of plan for them to come to the hospital. Randy had explained his job, why he couldn't go, but each time Remy had become more and more confused and frustrated by the antics of "Corporate." It didn't help that Randy had to keep explaining that "The Corporation" and "Corporate" were not the same thing; Remy had the damndest time keeping television separate from real life. Complicating things further was the fact that Joe was out of the hospital and recovering at home, and there were rumors about him and his ex-fiancee being not-so-ex after all. _'That's all Meg needs,' _Randy thought, _'Turn on the TV and find out the hard way that Joe's hurt and she's...replaced? Whatever Joe is doing. Doing his ex, I guess.'_

* * *

Randy's on-screen work was on auto-pilot; it was his only way to get back at the company for standing in his way. He worked matches with a complete and utter lack of enthusiasm; the second he was off-screen, he was back on his phone, arguing with anyone he could get to listen about why Meg needed to be released to him, or else kept where she was – he offered to pay bills, donate, make appearances, fund research, whatever they needed. Nothing helped. Confidentiality, HIPAA, any excuse the hospital could come up with, all stopped him. He had no legal tie to her; they didn't care who he was or what he offered.

Hitting a wall with the hospital that he had neither the expertise to overcome nor the borrowed time to fight, Randy decided to try a different tactic. After approaching talent relations and claiming exhaustion, stress, an inability to focus – and passing both drug and concussion screenings – he was able to get an injury scripted into his storyline, allowing him to pre-record a few promos, tape a few backstage interactions, and take five days of vacation to forgo sleep and go to New Orleans. _'Please, please be where they said you would be. Please, don't run anymore. And Dave, don't kill me for not telling you.'_

It was hardly surprising when he arrived at Ochsner and Meg wasn't there. _'A last minute transfer? Bitch move on your part, guys.' _They were at least kind enough to point him towards the proper ward at Tulane, and his mind wandered on the way there. 'S_he wanted me to come. She knew I would answer if someone called. She finally believed I would help her.'_ A small smile breezed across his face. _'Meg...something changed.'_

Sitting in an oversized chair in an opulent waiting area, Randy had to marvel at Tulane's medical center. _'Maybe...maybe having her moved here was a good thing. And I can pay her bill before she sees it. Between this place and the last one, she's fucked for money.' _The critical care triage clerk typed, frowned, typed again, then pushed her keyboard away.

"Sir, Miss...Nechayev? She's AMA."

"She's _what? _What happened?_" 'Okay, wait, you don't know what AMA means, maybe she's just in a different wing.'_

"She's checked herself out against medical advice. She's no longer being cared for here. She's discharged."

Randy put his head down on the desk and squeezed his eyes shut until he could see colors and shapes forming on the back of his eyelids. _'Meg, what the fuck are you doing? What, just what are you doing?'_

"Did she say where she was going?" He didn't bother to look up as he spoke, which was probably for the better. Looking up meant knowing where to reach in order to strangle the clerk.

"Hm...Here, let me call up to her last unit. Maybe she left a message." Turning away from the desk, the clerk spoke quietly into a phone behind her for several minutes, Randy growing more and more agitated while he waited.

"I'm sorry we can't be more helpful, sir. She only said she had someone to see in Florida. She sounded like she had somewhere specific to go, if that's your concern. The ward manager said she just wasn't...really ready...to go, though they did give her scrubs to wear before she left.. Apparently, Ms. Nechayev has not sounded...lucid...during her stay with us."

"I'm not even going to explain how stupid this is. You shouldn't have let her go." _'Not lucid. Not understanding what's going on. I'm not even understanding what the fuck is going on, how is she supposed to function?'_

"Once she signs the paperwork, there's nothing we can legally do about it. Trust me, they weren't happy about it upstairs, either."

Randy sighed again. "While I'm here, here's my address. Send the claims here." _'Waste of time. I have to get to Tampa before she walks in on...whatever the fuck. Get up, Randy. Go. Go fast.'_


	28. Siege at the Gates

Meg stood, shivering in the humidity, at the screen of an ATM four blocks from the hospital, completely confused by the array of buttons in front of her. She had walked up to the machine at least three times; it didn't get any less confusing after each approach. Frustrated, she threw herself down in a metal chair at a nearby sidewalk cafe and immediately regretted the decision; spikes of pain shot up her spine. Trying to keep her composure and not hurl the table over, she wrapped her fingers around its edge and squeezed her eyes shut. A waitress approached her, cautiously, and asked if she would be ordering.

Meg thought, carefully, making sure words would come to her in the correct order. _'She's not going to do anything. This is how it's supposed to work.'_

"Water, please. And something light. Croissant?" She tried to sound hopeful, casually pleasant. "And...may I have something to write with, s'il vous plait?"

The waitress eyed her distrustfully; Meg knew her hair must have been a sight. "It's been a long day. I'm sorry." She tried for apologetic in her tone, as well. _'Don't scare the girl, Meg. You need help. And food. Act normal.'_

The waitress wrote down the order, slowly, and left her pen at the table. Meg made a stack of napkins in front of her; it was the best she could do for paper. Eyeing the ATM suspiciously from across the sidewalk, Meg rubbed her temples and struggled through trying to remember the order in which she was supposed to press the buttons. "I know I used to know this. I remember the card number. Start there." She reached for the pen, closed her fingers around it -

_\- pulled back as hard as she could with the pen and slammed it down into his thigh, then lunged for the steering wheel and yanked it as far to the right as she could -_

Meg slammed the pen back down onto the table and stared at her hand. "Okay," she breathed, "Okay, Meg, calm the fuck down." The waitress chose that moment to slide the croissant and glass of water across the table, causing Meg to startle.

"Mon dieu, madame, are you alright?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah, I mean, yeah. I'm fine. Just a really long day. Thank you. Merci." Meg looked at the pen, unsure of how to continue. "Really, thank you. I'm fine."

The waitress shrugged, having seen stranger things in New Orleans, and moved along to other tables, leaving Meg to puzzle over how to write out Jackson's credit card number for one more hit before it was deactivated, owner deceased.

It took her several hours, and several more false starts, before Meg figured out that if she wrapped the pen in a napkin, and just didn't _look_, she could pick it up and write in short spurts on the stack of napkins in front of her. She managed Jackson's card number, and then some of the steps needed to use the ATM, before the effort exhausted her and the memories of the crash were overwhelming.

_'Okay. One last try. If you can't handle it, then...whatever. Start walking. Eventually, you'll find the bar. Even if you don't, it doesn't matter. Jackson's gone, that was the whole point.'_

Blessedly, the ATM cooperated, accepting her manually keyed card number and spitting out stacks of twenties into her hands. "There. Thank you, that was step one. Now...I need to remember how to get a cab." Meg, muttering to herself, went back to the cafe, left a twenty on her table and then tentatively, waved a hand toward the road. Describing her old bar as best she could, she hoped and prayed the cab driver would understand where she was trying to go. He accelerated aggressively to cut back into traffic, and Meg was pushed back into her seat -

_\- backed out wildly, banging Meg around the interior of the car, attracting far too much attention -_

\- she dug her fingers into the cushions of the seat, the doorwalls, anything to try to still her banging around in the cab, refusing to open her eyes, but it wasn't until the driver settled into a constant speed and rate of forward motion that Meg felt safe enough to look around. Some things were familiar; others weren't. Her head felt like it was wrapped in gossamer; everything had a slight dusty shimmer to it, as though the powdered glass from the car crash had never fully cleared from her vision.

* * *

Randy pressed the gas pedal down further than he should have, knowing full well he was testing his luck without knowing where the local speed traps were. _'It doesn't matter. I just need to get to Tampa ahead of her. Talk to Joe. What am I supposed to tell him? Leave her shit on the porch and don't answer the door? Take her back and please still be in love with her? Let's have a threesome, I promise not to look?' _Shaking his head, Randy rubbed his eyes, and refocused on the road. He was exhausted, but was determined not to stop more often than he had to. _'I don't know how much of a lead she had on me. I just have to get there.'_

He regretted his decision to drive; the panhandle was a completely soul-sucking geographical void, but it was too late to change his mind. He had checked flight departures while he was at the hospital – anything that was leaving 'soon' had a four-hour wait time, not counting any unexpected delays, plus security and fan-related drama. It was easier just to rent a car and get started, especially when he doubted Meg had the available funds to buy a plane ticket.

Back at the bar, Meg begged the cab driver to wait and leave the meter running. She took what felt like hours to climb the stairs, her leg screaming at her to stop even though she had no other way to access her room. She picked up as much of her clothing as didn't remind her of Jackson, threw her suitcase down the stairs – _'There's no way I can balance it down, anyway,'_ \- left two week's worth of rent on the backbar, and rolled her luggage out to the cab. The driver was kind enough to help her lift her things into the trunk, and then then turned to ask her where she needed to go next.

Meg was sweating and shaking from the physical effort of climbing the stairs and packing, and the emotional effort of sorting Jackson-tainted from not-Jackson-tainted clothing had drained her in a completely different way. She started short, closed her mouth, then looked blankly ahead.

"Madame? You are alright, n'est-ce pas? Where shall we go next?"

"Oui. We can go...well...I need to rent a car. You...can take me to the best place to do that? Your choice." Her voice was as vacant as her face.

The cab driver looked her over thoughtfully, then turned the meter off.

"Madame..." He sounded thoroughly convinced his passenger was not entirely well, and took pity on her. "There is a nearby rental company," he began, slowly, "In case you do not have your wallet, this company will...assist you. I assure you."

Meg snapped back into reality. _'Jesus, Meg. Even the complete stranger knows you're fucked up. Get it together.'_

"Sir...merci, sir. Thank you." Meg pressed several bills into his hands, not knowing or caring how far over the fare she had gone. She had the ATM figured out; she guessed she had at least a day until Jackson's cards were shut down.

Walking into the ramshackle rental building, Meg crossed her fingers that this would all work out – all she needed was one car that could get her and her suitcase to Tampa. Seeing Joe, she figured, would solve everything else. She could tell him she was sorry, she never meant to scare him, that she had never stopped loving him, that she had always done everything, made every decision, _because_ she loved him – and most importantly, tell him that Jackson was gone. The glittery, gossamer feeling refused to let go. Meg had no idea if she remembered how to drive a car, but that could be figured out as she went. She just had to go.

* * *

"You know what, baby...I was a complete asshole. I don't know what I was doing."

"Shh. It's okay. All that matters is we're okay now."

Sticky jasmine perfume filled Joe's bedroom as his now-on-again fiancee climbed into bed next to him, makeup painted firmly on her face, the straps on her negligee beginning to slip precariously down her shoulders. "Everyone has moments, right? I stepped out, you stepped out...we're all good now, it's fine. We're back the way we belong."

Joe felt his fiancee press into his hips, her legs trying desperately to pry between his. "Baby...you know it's too soon for me to do _that_...move up a little. There are other things." A sly smile crossed his face as his fiancee crawled up their bed, settling herself astride his shoulders, lifting the hem of her negligee up in front of his face. "I want whatever you want, Joe. Make me feel good." His hands slid up her back as he pulled her over his mouth, all other thoughts pushed from his mind for the moment. _'It's good to have you back. What the fuck was I thinking?'_

* * *

Randy forced back another yawn, watching the sun creep over the horizon. He leaned against the exterior of his car, parked along the shoulder, and tried to stretch his legs as best he could. He had a few hundred miles to go, no real need to stop for gasoline, and as long as he could keep himself awake, could likely make it to Joe's house before Meg did. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket for the umpteenth time during his trip and knew without looking that it would be Dave. Sighing, he knew he couldn't duck the calls forever. _'Better get the ass chewing done and over with. Here we go.'_

"Dave, before you get started - "

"No, you stop right there. What the _fuck_ are you thinking? We talked about this! We said _we_ would look for her when _we _went to New Orleans! Remember? _We_? And now you're out there doing whatever the fuck, alone!"

"Dave...I couldn't wait. _This _couldn't wait. One hospital said she was being transferred, another hospital couldn't hold her, and now she's gone again."

"Wait, what? Gone? Start over." Dave immediately shifted from angry to worried; his diatribe could wait until he knew what happened to Meg. Randy rehashed what he could remember from Tulane, Meg's decision to leave AMA, her vague comments about having somewhere to go, and what little he knew about Joe reconciling with his ex.

"Yeah, the last part is true. It's all over backstage. Everyone here is ready to kill him, babymama or not. In your absence, I...may have made sure that specific people knew why Meg left. The legal issues with Jackson, the car accident, things like that. The powers that be – higher-ups in corporate – know she ran in order to protect the company from legal action. I framed it as, "Too much panic to act rationally, but WWE's best interests at heart, trying to protect the talent, blah, blah, blah."

"So you put all of her business out there, just like that. Great. She's going to be _so_ fucking thrilled when she gets back." Randy's sarcasm could have melted his phone.

"She's not coming back, Randy. At least, not back to work here. Get it through your head. The concepts of her "business" and her "employment" don't exist anymore, and if this saves your ass, then so much the better. You were starting to get some _very _strange looks. It's not out to 'everyone,' it's out to 'the right ones.' You want to protect her, but you need to understand you can't protect her if you don't have at least _some_ help."

Randy was silent, but had to admit Dave had a point. Everything had careened nearly out of control; Dave had found a way to put the cars back on the rails. Thankfully.

"Okay. Fine. Let's say you have a point." Randy's tone was sulky; he drew lines in the dirt with the toes of his sandals.

"You're welcome. So what's your next move?"

"I'm on my way to Joe's house. That's the only place I can think that Meg would go. She doesn't have her own house or apartment. She didn't try to meet up at a show. She hasn't called me, and you didn't say she called you. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Oh no. Oh...oh shit."

"Yeah, exactly. It's not like she _knows_ or anything. She's gonna walk into a bomb."

"Okay...uh...okay...I'm going to come down there. I can get on a plane. Now that corporate knows, they're not going to want the bad publicity. They'll let me go deal with her."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Dave. A breakup at home is not bad publicity. I can handle this."

"A breakup when corporate has gone to very expensive lengths to hush-hush the fact an ex-employee nearly got herself killed in a car crash that shut down a major interstate in order to protect a major talent and a publicly-traded company after the threat of a lawsuit for slander? That's pretty bad publicity. We have no idea what condition Meg is in, mentally or physically. And she has nowhere left to go once Joe tells her to fuck off. Which you already know he will."

Randy was silent; Dave could hear breathing on the other end of the line, but not much else.

"Randy? Don't get _any_ bright ideas. Not. One. Wait for me to get down there, even if you see Meg. Don't do a fucking thing. I mean it."

"Dave?"

"What?"

"I'm not promising anything." Randy ended the call and got back in his car, unsure what to do with himself. He slid the gear shift back and forth, uncertain if he was really ready to start driving. He turned the car off, punched the steering wheel, got back out of the car, kicked at its tires, ratcheted Meg's medallion around and around his neck on its chain – _'Meg, what do I do? I know what you would do, if this was me acting like a dumbfuck, but it's you. And you don't act like this. It was always me doing stupid shit.' _He sat down in the dust, away from the road, and leaned against the car to think, completely losing track of time.

_\- Randy tore through the backstage area like a force of nature, taking down whole racks of chairs, amps, stacks of folding tables, coiled pyro wiring – it didn't matter what the object was, as long as it landed with a bang and, preferably, broke upon impact. Most of the staff pressed themselves into walls, unsure if this was part of a filmed segment or just another one of Randy's storms after his split with Sam. Reality was getting harder and harder to tell from fiction for the staff caught in his wake, and truth be told, most of them were getting sick of it. _

_He continued down the hallway, half-staggering, half-lunging, not caring who saw him or who he nearly knocked down, until Meg popped from a doorway and slammed a hand into his chest. She had to grab his zip-up and launch herself into a backwards run to keep from falling over from the impact – and the fact he didn't slow down or stop – but she kept herself attached to him, every step of the way._

"_You going to keep throwing shit? I'd rather you spend your paycheck on buying me drinks instead of replacing plywood tables, but whatever floats your boat."_

"_Shut up, Meg. And let go." Randy pried her hand loose, but Meg simply latched her other hand into his zip-up and started giggling when he pried that hand off. She grabbed back on again, smiling innocently, still jogging backwards._

"_You're not getting rid of me. And calm the fuck down."_

"_What are you, part cat? Let go."_

_They went through their swat-and-latch dance down the length of the entire hallway, Meg diffusing the entire situation with her antics, moving from giggling to outright hysterical laughter, Randy forgetting entirely about the tables and wiring, now focused on the squirming, dancing nymph attached to his front, starting to laugh himself, until Meg ran out of hallway and executed a quick spin to lead him back the way they came, both of them breathless. Randy finally smiled and yanked her forward into his chest in as much of a hug as he dared allow himself._

"_Okay, okay, you win. I quit breaking stuff if you quit yanking my shit around. It's Polo."_

"_Deal, but come see me after the show. You were in a mood, so now I have the right to worry."_

"_Nobody worries about me, Meg. I'm not-"_

"_Randy, shut the fuck up."_

"_That's 'Sir' to you, intern."_

"_Well, then let go of me, sir, before I kick you in the balls and mess up your Polo."_

_They continued laughing, Randy slouching against a wall while Meg plopped in the middle of the hallway, half-crosslegged, not caring whose passage she blocked as long as there was peace for the moment. - _

Looking back, Randy could remember Meg pressing her face against him just slightly longer than was necessary when he held her, her relief was obvious, but so was a vague touch of...enjoyment?

He banged his head against the side of the car. "Jesus, Orton. You're reading way too far into shit that happened way too long ago. Get over it. Get over everything. Go make sure she's okay. Get her into a hotel or something until Dave gets here, and then let him take care of it."

Slowly, he eased himself off the ground and into the car, turned the engine over and began to drive. _'Even if I get there before you, which is iffy now – I have no idea what to do. I can't talk him out of anything. Or into anything. Do I even want to? You were so happy, Meg. What are you now?'_

* * *

Meg, for her part, was brimming with anticipation. "Just a few hours, baby," she whispered to herself, "Just a few more, and then I can explain everything. I can tell you how sorry I am." She leaned down to rub her shin; the ache was probably never going to go away. The fracture was too complete, too severe – but the driving wasn't helping, either. "Never mind tell you. I can show you. Joe...you have no idea. I miss you so much. I love you. Always, always."

Highway signs turned into city lights turned into local street markers; Meg could almost feel herself vibrating as she tried to look for the right subdivision, right neighborhood. "I know I remember the gate passcode, I know what the house looks like...I can park this somewhere else; the gate attendant will remember me. And I'm in _m_y clothes; Marco always used to tease me about my shirts at the gatehouse." Meg kept talking to herself, as though she could simply imagine the perfect experience into existence just by speaking it.

Parking a block away, Meg tried to clean up as best as she could. She dug rose oil out of the bottom of her suitcase, spent extra time working a brush through her hair, found a pair of jeans she knew Joe would like and a black blouse that was passable for 'neat, clean, and Tampa.' She wanted the scars covered until she had a chance to explain them. Smelling, and feeling, a bit more like herself, she limped from the driver's seat and up the block, trying to drive a normal posture and gait back into her body by sheer force of will. _'I'm in here somewhere. I'm not Jackson's anymore. I'm just Meg. I'm going home. Everything I need is here with Joe.' _Gaining access was easy; everyone remembered her, was glad to see her, smiled and hugged her.

Meg saw a car she didn't recognize in the driveway at Joe's house; thinking it was a friend, cleaning service, anything other than what it was – she dragged herself to the door, pressing the doorbell.

She wasn't prepared – and who could be? – for who answered the door, half-clad in a silk robe, clearly just having been woken from a midday nap: Joe's fiancee, rubbing her eyes, Joe walking to the door behind her, jasmine perfume flooding out on a cloud of cold, perfectly-conditioned air.

Both women stood completely still, looking at each other, Meg not understanding why _that _particular woman was in front of her, simply tilted her head to the side and began to blink; Joe's fiancee was too tired to understand who _exactly_ was in front of her. Joe, moving as quickly as his healing incision would allow him, edged to the door and closed it firmly in Meg's face after holding up one finger in a gesture for her to wait.

"Baby, do me a favor and go wait in the bedroom, okay? This is just gonna take a minute. I have to give that box back to her, and then she's gone."

"Oh, that's your ex?"

"Yeah. Meg."

At that, Joe's fiancee started to giggle, and then outright began laughing, all trace of sleep gone from her face. "Oh, wow, sweetheart...you owe me more than one apology for that. Down. Grade. You really _did_ hit your head that night."

"No shit, sweetheart. I never said I didn't fuck up."

"You know, I can _hear_ you." Meg called from the other side of the door.

Joe sighed and kissed his fiancee on the top of the head. "Just go. This will take all of five minutes. I promise."

She licked the side of his neck. "Get it done in less than five, and I'll make it worthwhile."

"Deal."

Out on the porch, Meg's mind was simultaneously in overdrive and blank. As to practical considerations, she now apparently had a 'box' to carry back to her rental car, and was trying to force herself to remember not only what she had left at Joe's house, but if it was heavy. She wondered if she could manage carrying a box on her own. She couldn't understand why Randy and Dave hadn't told her about Joe's fiancee. She couldn't understand why Joe wouldn't at least let her try to explain before pronouncing everything over and done – she knew she had fucked up, fucked up in a completely epic way – but Joe always let her talk to him, explain, he had never just walked away from her, or said cruel things.

_'And what did Jackson say, Meg, that you were worthless, nobody could want you?'_

Slowly, Joe opened the door – and only enough to let himself out, nudging the box along with his foot. "I can't pick it up. Hernia surgery." He gave the box one final push toward her, and while it didn't appear heavy, Meg also knew how much stronger than her he was. "Anyway. There's not a lot to discuss, Meg. You took off on me. You know I don't do drama." He leaned into the doorframe, looking her up and down. "And Jesus Christ, you look like a fucking train wreck."

"Joe, I meant what I said, I wasn't going to let Jackson-"

"You weren't going to commit to _us_, you mean. You wanted an out? You got one. I got my shit back together. I moved on. You need to move on too, Meg. I'm sorry, I renewed my engagement, I'm with someone who wants to actually _be _with me. Whatever you do from here, it's not going to be with me."

"Will you at least let me-"

"No, Meg. Grab your stuff, time to go." Joe inched the box toward her with his foot again and backed into the doorway. "You said it when we hooked up – I had a concussion, I wasn't thinking right. It never should have happened."

"Hooked up? Joe, it wasn't - I'm sorry -"

"Me too. Here's your stuff. You can call Dave or whoever from the clubhouse." Joe moved fully past the door, closing it as he went, and walked towards the bedroom he now shared with his fiancee.

His fiancee was wrapped in silk sheets instead of her silk robe. "You were cutting it close, baby. But I think you clocked in under five minutes."

"Well. Then c'mere and give me my reward."

His fiancee was only too eager to climb between his legs and erase any lingering memory of Meg from his mind.

Meg stood on Joe's porch, unsure of whether to knock again and tell Joe the joke wasn't funny, or to pick up the box, if she could, and start walking. She looked down at the box and tested it with her foot. It was heavy, to be sure, but not impossible. _'The old me could do this, no problem. If I can make it to the clubhouse, I can maybe get someone else to carry it to my car. That's just down the street. Cry later, walk now. Figure it out.'_ Meg bent, slowly, carefully, working her fingers under the box, crouching, feeling her entire body scream from the compressed posture she temporarily adopted. As she lifted, her leg nearly went out from under her, and her collarbone felt as though it was about to twist apart. _'Fuck this. Fuck all of this. I did this for you, Joe. And the sick thing is, I still love you. I wish you would just let me explain.' _

Tilting herself against the rail of Joe's front steps, she used it to brace herself as she limped onto the walkway in front of his house, wobbling precariously as she adjusted to balance on her own, urging herself to make it the few hundred feet to the clubhouse, if only so she could set the box down and lose consciousness in the comfort of an air-conditioned room rather than out on the street.


	29. Full Circle

We made it! For those of you saying Meg needs to catch a break, she catches one, I promise. (And all things considered, she's only had _one_ crazy guy in her life. The **other** guy has just been an asshole. *snork*)

Rather than drag this out and on, I'm going to put a bow on it and move into a Part Two. For those of you who are content with leaving Joe where he lies, your ride is done. For those of you who want to punch the ticket a second time, the ride will continue.

Many, many, MANY thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, just read, took the time to drop me a note, anything. It's all very appreciated, and the interest and interaction is what makes all of us continue to put fingers to keys on this site.

Shoutouts to Shieldgirl, Nattie, MetalMayhem, Mom2, Psion, Ctina, and EVERYONE who chimed in, messaged on, and made it happen. Double-time to Ms. Warbler. All the love in the world.

* * *

As it happened, Meg didn't have to make it all the way to the clubhouse. The clubhouse employees, all of who remembered her, missed her, and much preferred her presence to that of Joe's catty new love, ran out the door to meet her.

"Meg! Dios mio! That box, put that down, give it here. What happened?"

Meg couldn't place the first voice that spoke to her, but the displaced voice also took the box, so she was grateful. It felt like a hundred hands were suddenly on her, all trying to lift her, steady her, guide her, get her inside the doors and comfortably settled into the air-conditioning before the heat caused her to crumble into the beach sand that framed the subdivision.

Everyone was talking at once, offering water, fanning her, and Meg couldn't hold her head up long enough to focus on any one person. _'How do I fix this? They can't call Joe anymore.'_ Of course, the first solution offered by the staff _was_ to contact Joe, and Meg, unsure she could find words, had to hold up her hands and force herself to wave as hard as she could to indicate that no, they should not make _that_ call.

Displaced Voice spoke again. "Meg, then what should we do? You need help. Should we call an ambulance?" He gently pushed her down into a plush chair and knelt in front of her as he spoke.

"No," Meg choked out, trying to hold a small paper cup of water steady. _'Where did this come from?'_ "No, gracias. I just need to get this box to my car. I was just leaving. Trying to leave. I'm not used to the heat."

"Meg, Meg, no. You can't leave. It's not safe. I can take the box for you, but you can't drive like this. You are not well. Here, give me your keys. I will put the box in your car, but you're staying here until someone comes to drive for you."

"You guys better find a bed. That's gonna be a long wait. And I parked a block away."

Displaced Voice chuckled. "Okay, Meg. Keys." He took her keys, stood, and looked her over while she stared into her paper cup. "While I go...can you think of anyone else to call? Any other numbers? What about that man you used to see? Your stories were not so wonderful, but he might come."

Meg shuddered. "No. Not him, either. Long story." She watched her box disappear, along with her car key, while she curled into a ball in the chair. _'I can think of two other people, but...the odds of either of them showing up...right.'_

* * *

Randy mentally kicked himself for spending so much time sitting on the side of the road when he could have been driving. "You wasted an _hour_, dumbass. An _hour_. She could be _anywhere_ by now. You know how she is. What the fuck were you thinking? You _know_ what you were thinking, and it didn't help things." He hadn't stopped berating himself for the past twenty minutes; if nothing else, it made the time pass. The radio stations offered up nothing but pop and salsa the closer he got to Tampa – not his style. He didn't have his iPod with him, either, or he would have put on something more familiar.

\- _He snapped the left side of her headphones against her ear, harder than he probably should have, and rather than swat behind her, Meg slapped herself over the same ear, trying to pin the earpiece in place._

"_Dammit, Randy, that hurt! What the fuck?" Meg gave up trying to adjust the headphones and draped them around her neck instead, rubbing her ear._

"_It hurts because you just punched yourself in the head, not because I snapped your headphones. Besides, it's not going to kill you to take a break from listening to your Justin Bieber bullshit."_

"_First, that wasn't Bieber I was listening to. Second, you came back here because you need something. What'd you fuck up?" She hadn't paused her iPod, and the sound of her music continued to filter out of her headphones._

"_You spend money on an iPod, and then you don't buy decent headphones?"_

"_Uh, Si-ir," Meg poked him in the chest, drawing out the word, "You came back here for something. What do you need?"_

_Randy sighed, sitting up on the counter next to the sink. "I might have punched a wall." He offered his hand to Meg, trying his best to look chagrined and failing miserably._

"_Dumbass." Meg slowly unfurled his fingers, wincing at the peeling skin and purpling knuckles. "You missed plaster and hit a stud. Good work."_

"_Technically, that means I didn't miss." He hissed as she came to his ring finger, and involuntarily yanked his hand back._

"_Sorry, sorry." Meg let go almost before he jerked, sensing his movement, then picked up his hand again, reconsidering his fingers carefully. "You really need a film, I'm feeling way too much motion in that second knuckle. I'm pretty sure it's only dislocated, but better safe than sorry."_

"_A film means filing a report, Meg."_

"_Aaand, behind door number two, we have the intrepid LPN who might just attempt to re-set the joint without filing a report." Meg winked at him. "The problem is, if it's not dislocated, all I'm going to do is make it worse."_

"_Then it's my fault, not yours."_

_Meg sighed, looked down at her shoes, up at his hand, further up at his face, trying to read his expression. "Okay. But here's the deal. It's going to hurt no matter what I do. I can ice the hell out of it, but that's only going to help so much. I have to poke around to feel what moved where, and then I'm going to have to snap things back in place. You can. Not. Yell. At all. If you flip out, or if I make it worse, and we get caught, I will almost absolutely lose my license. Got it?"_

_Randy looked surprised at the seriousness of her expression. "Meg, it's just one finger. It's not life and death."_

"_Randy, it's my license. I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to lose my job or my ability to ever get another job." She looked hurt that she had to explain things._

"_Well...when you put it that way. Where's the ice?"_

_Meg left and returned with two large buckets of chipped ice, and poured them both into the sink. Topping the sink with water and swirling the ice around, she pointed. "Batter up. Dip it."_

_Randy cringed, but dunked his hand. "Fifteen in, fifteen out?"_

"_Nope. Fifteen and five. I'll do skin checks. You'll live."_

"_Meg, you're gonna kill me with this shit."_

"_You're doing a fucking fine job of it all on your own."_

_He nudged her with his foot, but said nothing. She put her headphones back over her ears and started stacking towels, prepping gauze and a splint, and organizing swabs. Randy watched, mildly interested, through two rotations in and out of the ice bath, trying to ignore the throb in his hand. Idly, he reached over with his other hand and snapped her headphones a second time._

"_Motherfucking – if you do that again, I swear to God!" Meg rubbed her left ear, and dropped her headphones around her neck again._

"_Calm down, tiger. What are you setting all that up for?"_

"_For you, dumbass. In case you haven't noticed, you made hash out of the rest of your hand. I have to take care of that. Everyone's going to ask questions, but at least I can minimize the damage. You can say you overworked it at the gym, instead of that you're an idiot who tried to take on Home Depot and lost."_

_Randy reached over and lifted her headphones away from her neck, holding them up to his ears. "This isn't what I expected. It really isn't Justin Bieber bullshit, is it?"_

"_Deftones, asshole. Now pull your hand out and take your zip-up off."_

_Randy handed her headphones back, took his hand out of the ice, and took off his jacket. She blotted his skin dry with a towel, then rolled one sleeve of his jacket into a tight coil._

"_Okay. The towel I get, the jacket I don't. What's that for?"_

"_Because you need something to put in your mouth. I sure as shit don't need you yelling in my ear – or making any noise, period. And I have a limited supply of towels. Open wide." Meg looked smugly satisfied as she stuffed Randy's zip-up sleeve into his mouth. He rolled his eyes, but bit down. "Take a couple deep breaths, and try to relax." She looked up at him, thoughtful, and then put her headphones over his ears._

_Meg turned her back to him, backed into his lap, and wrapped his arm around her, pulling his hand into her lap. "Okay. Here we go."_

_Randy leaned over her shoulder, curious, dragging his mouthful of fabric with him like a dog with a rope-tug. Meg smiled and laughed as she watched him over her shoulder; Randy could feel the sound vibrate through him while the music carried through her headphones. 'I should get her a better pair; these things are tinny as fuck. I could work out to this if I could actually hear the bass in it. It's heavy. It's not what I thought she would listen to.'_

_Meg was waiting for the right moment; for blankness to settle over Randy's face and tell her that he was somewhere else, mentally. Subtly, her fingertips parsed out ligaments and bones; she knew she could slip the joint back to its original location. She just had to make sure Randy wasn't really watching when she made her move to do it, and she had to be prepared to let go of his hand quickly – when she adjusted it, it was going to be painful._

_He did yell and bang his head down into her shoulder when she pushed the joint back, but the sound was largely muffled thanks to her pre-planning for his inability to keep quiet. What she hadn't planned for was him locking his arm tightly around her, making it nearly impossible for her to breathe. Meg pushed against him briefly, then gave up and pulled her headphones away from him._

"_You okay?"_

_Randy turned his face toward her neck, but didn't loosen his grip. "Other than wanting to puke on you, I'm good. Did that fix it, or do I need a film?" He had to fight with himself not to do or say anything else; he was heady from her perfume and the rush of endorphins._

"_You're fine. I'm going to splint it for now, and you'll need it taped before the show, but you'll be able to get through it with some ibuprofen."_

"_No lecture about not punching shit?"_

"_Randy..." Meg trailed off, squeezing his arm with both hands. He loosened his grip enough to allow her to turn and face him. "If you want to talk, I'm here. If you want to go get shitfaced with me, I'm here for that, too. You know not to punch things – what lecture am I supposed to give you? Don't hurt yourself. Simple as that." She cupped his cheek in her hand, patting the side of his face. "Besides, it was worth it to hear you concede defeat about my musical taste. Now, let me clean up the rest of your hand." - _

* * *

Randy pulled up to the gate at the subdivision, hoping against hope that he wasn't too late. He drove in and parked next to a car he didn't recognize in Joe's driveway. "Maybe that's her," he mused, "And everything is fine. I'm probably worried about nothing."

For the second time that day, Joe's fiancee found herself staring cockeyed at a person she only half-recognized. Joe was sick of the interruptions; this time, he threw the front door wide open and stalked outside, trying his best to look intimidating while being unable to pull himself up to full height.

"You have balls, showing up here."

"Joe, just...I'm not here to fight. Dave is looking for her, too. Did she come up here or not?"

"She did, and I gave her back her box of shit and told her to get moving."

Randy rolled his eyes, half turned to go, then turned back to Joe. "And where did you tell her to get moving to?"

"The clubhouse, if she needed to call someone. Other than that, I didn't ask for details. I don't give a fuck where she goes, as long as it's not near me. Same goes for you. Off my steps, _now_."

"What is your _deal _with her? Did you even let her tell you anything? Try talking to her? Do you know what happened to her?"

"Off. My. Steps."

"Or what? It's not like you're gonna move me. Did you even try to talk to her? That's all I want to know. Or did you throw her away the same way you threw away your fiancee, the same way you threw me away, and Dave? Did she get at least _half_ a chance, or was it 'Get the fuck out, you crazy bitch?'"

Joe's face flipped from livid to sinister in a heartbeat. "No, it was pretty much, 'Get the fuck out, you crazy bitch.' Happy? Now, get _off_ my steps."

Randy turned without another word and headed up the sidewalk towards the clubhouse. _'Please, please, whatever is up there listening – St. Julian, if you're in on this one – please just let her be in there. In just one place that I've looked. If it's not too much to ask. If she's not there, just give me a hint. I'll keep driving.'_

While he walked, his phone rang – not Dave, but Remy. "Bonjour, Randy. Were you able to find her? Tulane said she had left. I wanted to be sure she was safe. It did not sound like it was a good decision."

"I'm still not sure where she is, Remy. I'm working on it. Once you know Meg, you get to know how fucking stubborn she is."

"Merde. She sounds like a pistol. Listen, the other reason I called – maybe you will want this news, maybe not – the police reports, fire reports, photographs, all of those, are completed and prepared. They are...detailed." He paused there, clearing his throat deliberately. "I asked medical records as well, and once her hospital bills are paid, Ochsner and Tulane will release her information. It may not help now, but in the future, she may want to know."

"Thanks, Remy. We owe you."

"Non, monsieur. Just get your girl, eh?" With that, he hung up and Randy pushed the door to the clubhouse open, fully prepared to see nothing but bored staff and empty tables.

Which, except for the one overstuffed chair holding Meg, asleep and curled tightly into a ball, was exactly what he found.

* * *

The sudden shot of hot, humid air that came flying across the room when Randy opened the door caused Meg to stir in her chair. She started to stretch her legs, but gave up – one was completely numb, the other wedged hopelessly underneath her to keep her from slipping down the seat – she wasn't yet awake enough to deal with their tangle, or to locate the source of the warm air. Instead, she started with her arms, trying to ruffle out her hair and work feeling back into her shoulders. Her collarbone ached from the pressure of sleeping against it. '_Smart, Meg. You're going to screw yourself up permanently. Well...that's a laugh, you are screwed up. But don't make it worse.' _

* * *

Randy took a step towards her, immediately reconsidered the decision, and backed out of the door as quickly as he came in, grabbing his phone and messaging Dave.

"Did you land? Call ASAP if you did."

"ETA is 45."

"She's here."

On the plane, Dave nearly shot up out of his seat, half-whooping with joy, causing most of the cabin to look at him with suspicion and alarm. Stewardesses rushed down the aisle toward him.

"Uh...sorry, sorry. Sports scores. We're winning. Sorry." Dave settled back into his chair, unable to suppress the broad grin on his face, fingers pounding the screen of his phone.

"Is she okay? What's she saying? Where's Joe? Is she talking to you? Does she need anything?"

"She doesn't know I'm here. I think."

"Randy, what the fuck?"

"I don't know what to do! Joe was a douche. She looks bad. IDK. There is no plan."

Dave sighed and tapped his phone on his forehead. _'Okay. Randy, time to grow up.'_

"Randy, figure it out. Gotta go."

Randy simultaneously rolled his eyes and wound up to throw his phone down on the concrete, but stopped himself mid-tantrum. He knew Dave was right. _'Meg would say the same thing. Figure it out. She's probably out of options. Make yourself into the only option.'_

Slowly, he opened the door, praying he hadn't just imagined Meg. Thankfully, she was still where he remembered her from a few minutes ago, this time paging absentmindedly through a magazine. Her legs were still pinned awkwardly underneath her, and she was rubbing one hand across her left collarbone, but – it was Meg. She turned to face the door as the warm Tampa air blew across the room a second time, and Randy was shocked at just how gaunt she was. Meg was no less shocked at seeing him in the doorway, and tried to force her legs to cooperate in lifting her from the chair.

_'Shit, shit, she's going to try to take off again...do something...figure it out.'_

Meg got one foot on the ground and tried to push herself upright with that and her arms in a motion that ended up nearly collapsing her sideways – and would have, except for Randy's ridiculously high-speed lunge that caught her and settled her back, less-tangled, onto the chair. He eased himself onto the floor next to her, holding her upright, not sure he should let go.

"Not gonna let me up to give you a hug, asshole?" Meg smiled wanly, putting no small effort into pushing his shoulder. She leaned forward into him, lifting her arms around him as best she could, praying he wouldn't outright push her away. _'Let one thing go right today, Cosmic Being? If I'm stuck here, just one friend would be nice.' _Meg leaned back, trying to read his eyes. "Look...I know I deserve whatever you want to say to me, so if you-"

Randy pulled her forward again, using no more force than she had, back into the same gentle hug she had initiated. "Meg, shut up. Just let me be glad I found you, okay?" He felt her face pull into a smile against his shoulder, and his mind swore up and down she leaned in just a bit more. _'Quit imagining things, Orton. Just get her out of here. Make yourself the only option.'_

As if reading his mind, Meg whispered, "You don't have a plan, do you?" She didn't move to let go, and neither did Randy.

"Not a single fucking idea. Kinda winging it here, Meg."

"Me too."

"I drove. You drive too?"

Meg nodded, leaned forward further, started to slide off the chair. Rather than reposition her awkwardly over him, Randy simply caught her on the way down, placing her on the floor against him. _'Keep working, she hasn't run yet. Buy time.' _"Kind of a long way to go alone, Meg."

"You should talk. You did it, too. And _so_ metaphorical."

"There's my girl. A smartass to the end." He chuckled. "C'mon, we have to go get Dave at the airport."

"We?" Meg started to sit up, the pleasantly drowsy look on her face being replaced by one of irritation. "Randy, c'mon...what are you trying to do?"

"Meg? Honestly? I don't know. But can you just go with it? He really wants to see you. It's not like I'm throwing you on a plane to a nunnery. There's no ulterior motive." He raised an eyebrow. "Well, okay. Maybe one."

"And what's that?"

"I'd like to take you to dinner. Who could resist an airport sandwich?"

Meg sat back, looked at him with her eyebrows knit, and then slowly, as though the sound didn't know where to come from or how to start, began to laugh as she fell back against his side.


End file.
